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THE CONFESSIONS 


OF 

A Frivolous Girl 

A STORY OF FASHIONABLE LIFE 


EDITED BY 

ROBERT GRANT 

AUTHOR OF “AN AVERAGE MAN,” “A ROMANTIC YOUNG LADY,” 
ETC. 


WITH VIGNETTE ILLUSTRATIONS 

By L. S. IPSEN 


BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
HiticrjJibc p're&j <£ambri&0e 



Copyright , 1880, 

By A. Williams & Co. 


// 




CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I. MY FIRST BALL. 5 

II. FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS.59 

III. MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE.104 

IV. MY SECOND SEASON.154 

V. SETTLING DOWN.191 

















. 





















MY FIRST BALL. 

" HTHE carriage has been at the door twenty 
minutes, Alice. Are you never coming? ” 
It was dear Papa’s voice reverberating up from 
the regions below; and I, a timid ctibutante, on the 
eve of my first ball, surrounded by Mamma, two 
of my aunts, and three female attendants, was stand¬ 
ing before my mirror, giving the finishing touches 
to a toilette, the duration of which had severely 
taxed my patience. My hand, trembling with ex¬ 
citement, gave one final pat to the delicate curve 
of water-waves that fringed my brow, — classic, I 
believe; at least, I have been told so, — and my 
maid approached to lay over my bare arms and 
shoulders the conventional fleecy cloak. My dress 
was from Paris, — a simple white tulle, the overskirt 
trimmed with artificial flowers. A single red rose 
in my dark brown hair; that was all. 
















6 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOI OUS GIRL. 


“ Alice! ” 

“ Yes, Papa, in one minute.” 

Mamma, who was herself already dressed, 
scanned me with a critical eye from head to foot, 
gave a parting pull to my dress behind, and then, 
with a quiet smile of approval, stooped to imprint 
a kiss upon my cheek. 

“ How perfectly lovely you look, Alice dear! ” 
said Aunt Gertrude, with a sigh of admiration. 

“ Your dress is exquisite, my darling,” exclaimed 
Aunt Louise, as, examining me all over through 
her eye-glass, she described a circle around me; 
“ but I think,” she added, turning to Mamma, 
“ that that skirt does not hang exactly right yet.” 

“ Oh, bother, bother, bother ! ” I murmured, with 
a little stamp of my foot; but, though more restless 
in spirit than deer-hound straining on a leash, I 
was forced to stand still while twenty fingers tugged 
and hauled, and stitched the refractory garment 
into place. 

“Alice! ” 

“ Ready at last, Papa.” But as I spoke, horror 
upon horrors! one of the servants ushered into 
my chamber a good-natured-looking, middle-aged 
woman with the words, “ Miss Alice, here is your 
old nurse, Jane Sullivan, as would like to see you 
dressed.” 


MY FIRST BALL. 


7 


“ I am glad to see you, Jane,” said I, with an 
attempt at enthusiasm, for I was really fond of the 
old woman who had nourished me in infancy; “ but 
you must be quick, for Papa is waiting.” 

“ O Miss Alice,” she cried, holding up her hands 
in an ecstasy of admiration, “ who ’d have thought 
as how you ’d look so beautiful! ” And then, turn¬ 
ing to Mamma, the ancient retainer poured out 
her soul in the hoarse whisper, “ She do look just 
elegant, Mum, and it will be the lucky lad that 
gets her.” 

This was embarrassing, and, having donned my 
cloak again, I fled from the laughter that followed. 
Along the entry-way and down the staircase I 
tripped, light-footed and light-hearted as a fairy, 
rejoicing in the consciousness that the dream of so 
many months was about to be realized at last, and 
that I was actually en route for my first party. My 
first party ! Oh the rapture of it! What bliss to 
think that I was to be no longer a little girl, but a 
grown woman, able to do just what I liked and go 
where I pleased; perhaps, if fortune was kind, to 
cut a figure in the gay world, and become, not 
exactly a belle of course, but liable to have one or 
two of those mysterious creatures called men at 
my feet, even possibly (it would be dreadful, but 
awfully fascinating) break a stray heart! But 


8 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL 


then, oh ghastly thought! suppose nobody should 
speak to me, and I should be obliged to sit all 
through the evening alone in a corner, the way 
Mary Addison, who “ came out ” the winter before, 
had to do ! Yes, that would be my fate; I felt it in 
my bones, I knew it would. But if it was, I would 
never go anywhere again, no, never! The mere 
thought made me fairly shiver, and as I came into 
the parlor and saw Papa, standing in evening-dress 
before the fireplace, with his hands behind his 
back, type of the awful creatures I should have to 
face, my courage gave way completely, and I sank 
down upon the sofa, crying, “ O Papa, Papa, I 
shall have a horrid time, I know I shall! ” 

“ Yes, I suppose you will, my dear,” was the 
cruel, laughing reply. 

“ I am sure that nobody will speak to me. 
There will not be a soul in the room that I 
know.” 

w Probably not, my child.” 

“ Oh, how mean of you, Papa! But I warn you 
that if I have to sit without anybody to talk to, I 
shall come home and go into a convent and — and 
never come out again.” 

“ Very well, Alice; but, convent or no convent, 
the carriage is waiting, and I hear your mother’s 
step on the stairs. You had better get your flowers.” 


MY FIRST BALL. 


9 


“ Oh yes, to be sure; I had almost forgotten them.” 
And with that I ran across the hall into the dining¬ 
room, where my bouquets were lying on a table 
near the open window, each swathed in cotton-wool 
and reposing in a green pasteboard florist’s box. 
There were three of them,— one composed entirely 
of lovely deep-pink Bonselline rosebuds, the gift 
of a thoughtful male cousin; another from Aunt 
Louise of roses and mixed flowers. Mixed flowers, 
forsooth ! Ugh ! why is it that women never know 
howto send flowers to other women? The idea, 
too, of carrying a bouquet from one’s aunt! A 
Boston girl would consider that it was acting under 
false pretences, and would leave it at home. But 
then, thought I, as I raised the despised bouquet 
from its fellows, and turned it around critically in the 
light, I am not a Boston girl, and it would be a shame, 
you know, to hurt dear Aunt Louise’s feelings. Be¬ 
sides, nobody need know who sent it unless I tell 
them, and three bouquets look a great deal better 
than two. “ Yes,” said I with a repentant kiss, “ I 
mean to carry you, you poor abused things; and 
after all, you are not so very ugly.” 

But my special, pride and glory was my third 
bouquet, a gorgeous bunch of dark-red Jacquemi¬ 
not roses interspersed with yellow Marshal Neils. 
They had been sent to me by a young New-Yorker, 


IO THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


Mr. Manhattan Blake, who had been introduced to 
me the preceding summer at Newport, and whom I 
had met once or twice afterwards at little teas or 
lawn-tennis parties, to which, considering that I 
was so nearly a “ bud,” I had occasionally been al¬ 
lowed to go. They were perfectly lovely, but I 
could not possibly imagine why he had sent them. 
It was awfully nice of him, however, and I could 
not help feeling a kind of secret satisfaction, which 
was very wrong, I know, in thinking how mad it 
would make the other girls. 

Mamma’s voice interrupted my meditations, and, 
armed with all this wealth of flowers, I returned to 
the parlor. 

“Well, Alice,” said Papa, “you look like the 
Princess in the fairy tale. Upon my word, I envy 
your partners. If I were a young man I should 
fall dead in love with you.” 

“ Oh, how silly, Papa! ” said I. 

“ Don’t fill the child’s head with such nonsense,” 
cried Mamma, severely. “ Come, Alice, it is time 
to go.” 

Papa laughed, and, bending down, kissed me on 
the forehead. “ Oh, my water-waves ! look out for 
my water-waves! ” I shrieked in an agony of ap¬ 
prehension ; and, breaking from his fond embrace, 
I rushed to the looking-glass to discover if those 


MY FIRST BALL. 


II 


precious objects of solicitude were the worse for 
such demonstrative conduct. They were still in¬ 
tact, and with a playful wave of my handkerchief 
at Papa, I tripped down the front-door steps after 
my mother, and got into the carriage. “ Mrs. 
Barnum Van Amburgh’s, Fifth Avenue,” said Papa 
to the driver, and away we rolled from the home 
of my childhood. 

It may be well, before proceeding further, to 
give some account of my previous life, although 
the lives of girls up to the period when they enter 
society are apt to be very uneventful, and mine 
has been no exception to the general rule. I was 
born in New York in the year 1858, and my 
father’s family is among the oldest in the city. 
Papa’s own name is Van Rooster Palmer. My 
mother lived in Boston before she was married, 
and among her ancestors was one of the Pilgrim 
Fathers who came over in the “ Mayflower.” She 
has always been proud of her antecedents, and 
brought me up to regard the various deceased 
members of her family as remarkable persons. 

When about six years old, I was sent to a select 
Kindergarten, where my associates were children 
whose parents were all known to Mamma, and 
shortly afterwards I began to take lessons on the 
piano from Miss Chambers, a respectable and 


12 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


accomplished young lady, compelled to earn a 
livelihood by giving instruction in music, owing to 
her father’s having misappropriated the funds of 
a bank while cashier, thereby affording Mamma 
an opportunity to practise philanthropy as well as 
provide for my education. Such was the tenor 
of my days during the doll and baby-house stage 
of existence; but when playthings ceased to have 
a charm for me, and I had begun to wear my hair 
down my back, in a braid ornamented with colored 
ribbons, Mamma took advantage of a vacancy in 
a school for young ladies, kept by Miss Gobang, 
a first-class disciplinarian, and for the next six 
years I sat directly under the eye of that experi¬ 
enced teacher. The course of study, in addition 
to the usual English branches and French, German, 
and Italian, included more or less instruction in 
Physics, Latin, Botany, Art, Geology, Astronomy, 
and Metaphysics. Besides which we had weekly 
exercises in composition, lectures on hygiene, and 
daily drill in gymnastics. It was very nice to be 
able to range over such a wide field of knowledge, 
for I never liked to study any one thing very long, 
and it was one of Miss Gobang’s pet theories that 
it was best for a woman to know a little of every 
thing, and nothing thoroughly. 

But the sweetest memories of that happy period 


MY FIRST BALL. 


13 


belong to the friendships that I made and broke 
with my girl schoolmates. Shall I ever forget that 
little bun-shop, round the corner, to which we used 
to steal away at recess, although against the rules, 
and treat ourselves (girls rarely treat each other) 
to gingerbread and other delicacies? It was there, 
I remember, that Mattie Van Ulster and I, one 
morning, in an ecstasy of mutual confidence, 
poured out our souls to one another over a pickled 
lime. I told her that she was my best friend, she 
declared that I was hers, and we vowed that 
nothing, on earth should ever part us. Alas for 
the constancy of girlish affection, within a week 
she called me a “ hateful thing,” and I — it makes 
me blush to recall it now — stuck out my tongue at 
her, and walked away, tittering, arm in arm with 
fascinating Guendolen Hochheimer. 

During the last year of my school life, however, 
a change came over the spirit of my dreams. It 
no longer gave me amusement to play “ I spy ” 
and “ tag ” with the other girls; but, arm in arm 
with Grace Irving, who had then become in earnest, 
and ever will be, my best friend, my recess was 
spent in walking sedately up and down on the 
sidewalk in front of our school. The braid with 
its bright ribbons that had once adorned my back 
was discarded for a graceful coil, and a long dress 


14 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

added several inches to my height. Sometimes it 
happened that the young men whom we met at 
dancing-school would pass us during our prome¬ 
nade, whereupon we would bow in a shy, con¬ 
strained manner, blush, and for some reason that I 
could never discover, look at one another and laugh. 

But the day came at last when all this had an 
end. One bright June morning, our class (there 
were twelve besides myself) assembled in the 
school-room in rather better clothes than usual, to 
say good-by to our dear teacher. Miss Gobang 
appeared in the gray silk dress worn immemorially 
by her on such occasions; and after we had talked 
and laughed a little together, rapping on her desk 
with the ruler, she called us to order, and deliv¬ 
ered an address full of the kindest advice, and 
overflowing with feeling. When, after one of her 
most touching periods, she paused for a moment 
to conceal her emotion, one of the girls nudged 
me, and I went up to the desk with a large parcel 
in my arms, and said, “ Miss Gobang, the gradu¬ 
ating class hope you will accept this copy of Irv¬ 
ing’s works as a slight token of their affection and 
esteem.” The room was so still one might have 
heard a pin drop. I took my seat, and Miss Go- 
bang busied herself for a moment or two in exam¬ 
ining the books; then, giving one of her peculiar 


MY FIRST BALL. 15 

little coughs, she looked up, and with tears in her 
eyes said, simply, “ Thank you, my dears.” 

There was rather an awkward silence after this; 
but presently, without continuing her address, 
Miss Gobang invited us into the adjoining room, 
where we found, as we expected, a cold collation 
ready for us; and while we were eating the ice¬ 
cream, she handed round a basket of little cakes 
marked in frosting with each of our names. 

Returning home that day with Grace Irving, in 
rather a mournful frame of mind, Mamma met us 
at the door with the exciting exclamation, “ They 
have arrived, Alice dear.” 

“What have arrived?” said I, totally at a loss 
as to her meaning. 

“ Your French clothes, my love.” 

“ O Mamma! ” I cried, and Grace and I imme¬ 
diately tore upstairs to the spare-room, where the 
two huge trunks had been placed. The lids were 
already open, and it was with a sort of awe that we 
lifted the folds of delicate tissue-paper to peep at 
the treasures beneath. That afternoon I had great 
fun trying them on. There were six in all, and 
each was perfectly lovely in its way; but the white 
tulle which I have already described pleased me 
most. 

At dinner I noticed that Papa was put out about 


16 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


something. He would scarcely speak to Mamma 
at all, and his answers to me, towards whom his 
manner is usually so sweet, were extremely short. 
I took advantage of his leaving the room to ask 
Mamma if we had offended him in any way. 

“ Custom-house duties, my child, that’s all,” 
Mamma replied with a sigh. “ Papa has had to 
pay a great deal for your clothes.” 

“Oh, I am awfully sorry,” said I. 

“ They call it smuggling,” Mamma went on, “ to 
try and bring in French clothes free of duties. 
But it is n’t smuggling. All the laws in the world 
could not persuade me that it is so.” 

“ Why is n’t it? ” cried Papa, who, re-entering the 
room at the moment, overheard the speech. 

“ Because it is n’t,” said Mamma. Whereupon 
a gloomy silence fell upon the household which 
was not dispelled for several days. 

During the ensuing summer, which we spent at 
our cottage at Newport, Mamma took pains to 
keep me well in hand, as she called it. I was not 
allowed to go to any parties with the exception 
of very informal affairs, such as the lawn-tennis 
parties previously alluded to; and everybody was 
studiously informed that I was not yet “ out,” as 
the technical phrase is. Much of my time, need¬ 
less to say, was passed in revolving my hopes and 
fears for the coming winter. 


MY FIRST BALL. 


17 

But now at last the fetters had been removed, 
and I was free to taste the pleasures of society to 
my heart’s content. 

The carriage drew up at Mrs. Van Amburgh’s 
door, and as I stepped out upon the carpeting 
spread to protect our slippers from the cold damp 
sidewalk, faint strains of one of Strauss’s most de¬ 
licious waltzes were wafted across the night air to 
my all-impatient ears. A half-dozen serious-look¬ 
ing servants, in faultless evening-dress, bowed us 
through the spacious hall, and, trembling like an 
aspen leaf, I followed Mamma up the oaken stair¬ 
case. At the top of the first flight we came upon 
what seemed to poor inexperienced me a fairy 
spectacle. Two large brilliantly lighted rooms, 
with the intervening entry-way, were filled almost 
to overflowing with a gay throng, whose hum and 
laughter, mingling with the crash of the music, 
had the most bewildering effect upon my senses. 
Closely following in Mamma’s wake, I threaded 
my way (for we were late) between rows of 
lovely, beautifully dressed girls, who, half reclining 
on the divans and chairs that lined the entry-way, 
and even on the lower steps of the stairs them¬ 
selves, were receiving the homage of numerous 
young men who hovered about them in the vari¬ 
ous postures that admiration assumes in society. 


18 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


About the doorways that led from the entry into 
the larger rooms, were other groups of young men 
leaning against the walls and one another, whose 
faces depicted a varied range of emotions, and who, 
as I afterwards discovered, numbered among them 
the philosophers, soreheads, and diffident members 
of the fashionable world. Pausing for a moment, 
while several couples on the stairs, whose tete-a - 
tHes our advent had interrupted, made room for 
Mamma to pass, I could not help overhearing a 
young man, in one of these latter groups, whisper 
to his neighbor in evident allusion to me,— 

“Who is that awfully nice-looking little girl ?” 

“That? Oh, that’s a bud. Considerable sang¬ 
froid , so to speak, for one so young, has n’t she? 
Miss Palmer is her name, Miss Alice Palmer; and 
rather the correct thing they tell me. There’s 
your chance, old man, — unimpeachable social po¬ 
sition, only daughter, — rich and delicate-looking 
father, apoplectic mother; what more do you want, 
Gerald? ” 

“ Oh, I’m not a marrying man, you know, my 
dear fellow,” replied the other. “ I like all the 
dear little things too much to confine myself to any 
one. If it ever comes across me that any one of the 
darlings is getting too fond of me, I always make a 
point of telling her that I intend never to marry, 
and thereby free myself from all responsibility.” 


MY FIRST BALL. 


19 


“You always were a considerate man, Gerald,” 
was the sardonic reply. 

During this dialogue I could feel the blood 
mounting to my cheeks, and I hardly knew whether 
to be angry or amused; but when I reached a 
curve in the staircase, I turned my head and 
snatched a sidelong glance at my critics. It 
was easy to identify them, from the fact that 
their eyes were still following my retreating fig¬ 
ure. One of them, a tall slim young man with 
a light complexion and straw-colored whiskers, 
stood languidly leaning against the panel of the 
door, his feet and hands crossed in front of him, 
from one of the latter of which his opera-hat 
hung pendent. He was eminently good-looking, 
quite distinguished-looking, in fact; but the effect 
that his physical beauty might otherwise have pro¬ 
duced was spoiled for me by his too apparent 
consciousness of his own attractions, and a blase, 
almost effeminate air that characterized his every 
movement. I knew instinctively that it must have 
been he who had alluded to my sex in general as 
“dear little things;” and, recalling the name by 
which his companion had addressed him, it dawned 
upon me that this was undoubtedly the famous 
Mr. Gerald Pumystone, whom I had often heard 
spoken of as one of the leading young men in 
society. 


20 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


The appearance of Mr. Pumystone’s friend was 
a marked contrast to his own. He was a man in 
the neighborhood of thirty, and ostensibly the 
senior of Mr. Pumystone by some four or five 
years. He was slightly shorter than the latter, 
but his general physique was much larger, and 
conveyed the impression of a strong, powerful 
person, a trifle inclined to embonpoint. His face 
was full and rather massive. His close-cropped, 
slightly curly hair and heavy mustache were 
black. He had big sympathetic dark-brown eyes, 
of which the gaze seemed to hold one spell-bound, 
and about his mouth lurked an expression half¬ 
wicked, but altogether fascinating. “ Oh,” said I 
to myself, “ what an interesting-looking creature ! ” 
and perhaps that term “ interesting-looking ” will 
convey, at any rate to other girls, a clearer idea 
of what he was like than any further description 
of mine could do. 

On reaching the dressing-room, Mamma gave 
me another careful inspection, and after a final 
pull at my skirt, led the way downstairs. I gave 
one long glance at the mirror to see that every 
thing was right, and followed her with quaking 
heart. Papa was waiting for us at the first landing, 
but as soon as we reached the entry-way, two 
eager-looking young men with boutonnibes in their 


MY FIRST BALL. 


21 


button-holes, and who, as I subsequently learned, 
had been deputed by Mrs. Van Amburgh to con¬ 
voy the guests to her presence, came forward and 
offered us their arms. 

I mechanically followed Mamma’s example, 
and suffered myself to be led away by one of 
them. As he said nothing to me I said nothing 
to him, and he pioneered a way for me into the 
front parlor, in one corner of which our hostess 
with her daughter Maud, for whom the party had 
been given, was receiving the company. The 
latter, a dumpy little Hebe, with fat rosy cheeks 
and bewitching brown eyes, was standing beside 
her mother, grasping five superb rosebud bouquets; 
and as each guest brought up for presentation 
bowed before her, she would smile demurely over 
the tops of her flowers, and give a quaint little 
duck to her body that passed for a courtesy. 

Mrs. Van Amburgh, herself a stately, gracious- 
looking lady, who must in youth have been very 
handsome, attired in a rich claret-colored dress cut 
square in front, greeted each of her friends, as they 
approached, with a charming smile and pressure 
of the hand, and in the marvellous rapidity with 
which, without disregarding any of the canons of 
politeness, she disposed of one and turned to 
another, suggested the neat action of Papa’s 


22 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

breech-loader, which, in less time than it takes 
to describe, discharges itself, throws out the old 
cartridge, replaces a new one, and is in readiness 
for a second shot. 

“ How good of you to come! ” she cried to 
Mamma. “ I hope that Mr. Palmer is with you. 
Oh yes, here he is. Mr. Palmer I am delighted 
to see you; and, Alice, dear, how lovely you look ! 
You must be sure and have a nice time.” And then 
she turned her graceful head to welcome old Colonel 
Huckins, who had entered the room just behind us. 

“ O Alice, I am so glad to see you,” cried Maud, 
enthusiastically. “ It is so late that I had begun 
to be afraid that you were not coming. I can’t 
give you my hand, my dear, as you perceive, but 
I am ever so pleased that you are here.” 

“ Alice,” interrupted Mamma at this moment, 
giving me a sort of nudge, “ I want you to know 
Colonel Huckins. He is a very old friend of mine. 
We knew one another when we were children.” 
I turned, and found myself face to face with a 
good-natured-looking, puffy old gentleman, with 
small eyes and comparatively no neck. 

“ Is it possible, Mrs. Palmer,” said he, “ that you 
have a daughter old enough to be in society? I 
would never have believed it unless you had told 
me; upon my word, I would n’t, he ! he ! ” where* 


MY FIRST BALL. 


23 


upon the old gentleman broke into a chuckling 
laugh, as if he had said a decidedly clever thing. 

“ And how do you like the gay world, my dear? ” 
he continued, turning to me. “ I suppose that all 
the young fellows are at your feet, of course. If 
I were a young fellow I should feel myself in 
great danger, — yes, in great danger, ho! ho ! ” 
As he spoke, he gave a kindly leer at me, that 
was intended to be complimentary, and exploded 
again into one of his guffaws. 

I smiled a sickly smile, and blushed up to the 
roots of my hair. I could not think of a single 
thing to say, so I stammered out something about 
this being my first party. 

“ That’s right, that’s right,” was the reply, 
which showed that Colonel Huckins could not 
have understood very distinctly what I said. “ I 
shall have to guard my heart very carefully, I see; 
for although I am an old chap, he! he! I am 
terribly susceptible still, — yes, terribly suscep¬ 
tible, ho! ho!” 

“ Charming, oh, charming,” he whispered to 
Mamma. “Just what you were at her age. A 
dangerous pair, ho! ho! As the poet says, 
* Matre pulchra filia pulchrior! ” Chuckling over 
which very ancient jest, kind-hearted Colonel Huck¬ 
ins hobbled across to the other side of the room. 


24 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


I was left standing alone by the side of Mamma, 
for the young man who escorted me to the 
presence of our hostess had slipped away the 
moment after I released his arm. Frightened as 
I was, I ventured to cast a few glances about me. 
The reception-room was occupied principally by 
the fathers and mothers, for most of the young 
people had retired to the entry-way and stairs, or 
were waltzing in the room beyond, which had ap¬ 
parently been stripped of furniture and devoted to 
the use of the dancers. In my immediate neigh¬ 
borhood, however, was a group of seven or eight 
girls who seemed to have no gentlemen talking 
to them. Some of them were seated upon a sofa, 
and the rest were standing close to the wall. I 
recognized that two or three of these were, like 
myself, debutantes , and it was evident, from their 
faces as well as from the fact that they were 
chatting together in a nervous, excited sort of way, 
as if entirely uninterested in what they were say¬ 
ing, that they felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. 
The countenances of the others, to whom this was 
presumably no novel experience, wore a look of 
patient, calm despair, and brought vividly before 
me those unhappy creatures described by Dante 
in his “ Inferno,” a little of which I had read, with 
the aid of a translation, at Miss Gobang’s school, 


MY FIRST BALL. 25 

who, on account of something that was their mis¬ 
fortune, and not their fault, lived without hope in a 
state of perpetual desire. 

“ Oh,” thought I, “ how dreadful it must be! 
Perhaps this is what I am reserved for; perhaps 
nobody will ever speak to me, and I shall stand 
just where I am all the evening.” I felt myself 
shaking all over, and even on the condition of 
never going to another party, I would have given 
worlds to have been safe at home again. 

“ Good evening, Miss Palmer,” said a voice close 
to my ear. I turned round hurriedly, and there 
stood Mr. Manhattan Blake, the young man who 
had sent me the flowers. 

“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Blake?” I didn’t 
know whether I ought to shake hands with him 
or not, so I put my hand half-way out and drew 
it hastily back again. Of course this was dread¬ 
fully embarrassing, and I felt all my ideas leaving 
me on the spot. 

“ I have not seen you since we were at New¬ 
port,” said he. 

“ No,” said I, “ and oh, Mr. Blake, I want to 
thank you for these lovely roses. It was awfully 
kind of you to send them.” 

He acknowledged my speech by a bow, and 
I thought that he blushed a little, as he said, “ It 
gave me great pleasure to send them.” 


26 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


“ I am so fond of flowers,” I added, burying my 
face among the beauties to inhale their fragrance. 

“ Don’t you think it would be pleasanter in the 
other room, Miss Palmer?” said he. 

“ Perhaps it would!' I took his arm, and as he 
led me out into the entry-way where the other 
girls were, the hare-like timidity that had op¬ 
pressed me seemed to vanish completely. With 
head erect, and eyes sparkling with excitement, 
I boldly faced the brilliant throng, many of whom 
paused for a moment in their avocations to gaze 
at the new “ bud.” 

Oh, what fun it was! All around me I saw girls 
whom I knew, and had supposed in many cases 
to have nothing in them, with three, four, and 
even five young men bending over, sitting beside 
them, or on ottomans at their feet. I caught a 
glimpse of Grace Irving, ensconced in a corner 
with two stylish-looking creatures, and waved my 
fan at her. She recognized me, and gave a radi¬ 
ant nod in return, while one of her companions, 
whom I then perceived to be Mr. Gerald Pumy- 
stone, put up his eye-glass and stared at me. I 
am afraid I blushed, but I tried to look supremely 
unconscious of his existence. 

‘‘Isn’t it splendid, Alice?” whispered Mamie 
Stonenger, a charming “ bud,” who, all aglow with 


MY FIRST BALL. 


2 7 


excitement, passed me at this moment, on the 
arm of a tall, attractive-looking young man. 

“ Perfectly thrilling, Mamie dear,” I murmured 
in response, bending back my neck until my lips 
almost touched her shell-like ear. Thrilling it cer¬ 
tainly was, and what with the glare of the lights, 
the music, the lovely flowers that decked the 
rooms, the beautiful dresses and incessant hum of 
laughter-laden voices, a bewildered, dazed sort 
of feeling began to steal over me, and I caught 
myself saying any thing that came into my head, 
without thinking what it was or what it meant. 

“ Oh, Mr. Blake, what a heavenly-looking floor! ” 

“ It is comparatively clear now, I see. Shan’t 
we have our turn?” 

“ I should like one very much. But remember, 
Mr. Blake, I waltz horribly. I am only an inex¬ 
perienced ‘ bud,’ you know.” This was a wicked 
falsehood, for I had always been at dancing-school 
one of Mr. Pantaletti’s favorite pupils. 

Mr. Blake smiled incredulously, and, placing his 
arm about my waist, whirled me into the vortex. 
Oh, what glorious fun it was as we went gliding 
around on that delicious inlaid floor, to the notes 
of Strauss’s “ Autograph ” waltz ! We seemed posi¬ 
tively to have wings, and my partner, who danced 
divinely, guided with such skill that we had very 


28 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


few collisions. But what mattered an occasional 
bump? It only made it all the more exciting. 
Once or twice I became painfully conscious that 
strips from my precious train were floating around 
me, and visions of Mamma’s wrath on the morrow 
somewhat dampened the ardor of my skipping 
spirit; but only for a moment, and then, summoning 
all my energies, I drove the phantom thence, and 
abandoned myself to the dance and all its conse¬ 
quences. We stopped at last from sheer exhaus¬ 
tion, and Mr. Blake, leading me into a recess 
formed by the window at the further end of the 
room, seized my fan and began to fan me vigor¬ 
ously. 

“How per—perfectly splendid!” I cried, as 
soon as I could get my breath. 

“ That was one of the most charming turns 
I ever had in my life, Miss Palmer.” 

“What nonsense, Mr. Blake! If you talk like 
that, I shan’t believe any thing you say.” 

But I thought, nevertheless, that it was awfully 
nice of him to say it; and he looked, too, as if he 
meant it, which was nicer still. 

“ What a cruel speech, Miss Palmer! I am 
terribly in earnest. Won’t you believe me?” 
There was a beseeching look in his eyes that 
made me feel a little wicked. 


MY FIRST BALL. 


29 


“ I could n’t. I would like to, but I was warned 
beforehand not to believe any thing to-night that 
any one told me, and I promised I would n’t.” 

“ And you absolutely refuse to make an ex¬ 
ception in my case?” 

“Well, I’ll see. I will think it over. Will that 
satisfy you ? ” and as I spoke, I gave an unintentional 
little glance out from under my eyelashes, that made 
Mr. Blake, for some reason or other that I could 
not understand, blush, and look down at his pumps. 

“ I suppose it will have to,” said he in reply, 
with an expression of mock despair. 

As I gazed at him, I could not help feeling that 
he was really quite attractive. He had a refined, 
slightly delicate - looking face. His complexion 
was light, and he wore no mustache, beard, or 
whisker. His— But I think, on the whole, that 
I will not describe his personal appearance any 
further, for young men in society all look so much 
alike that to convey a definite impression of their 
individual advantages by any mere verbal descrip¬ 
tion, requires the skill of one versed in the deline¬ 
ation of character. Besides, the way in which a 
man says things makes a great deal more differ¬ 
ence to a girl than whether he is good-looking or 
not, unless, of course, he is very handsome, and 
Mr. Blake was hardly that. On the other hand, 


30 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

however, he had an extremely gentlemanly air — 
But no, I positively will not say any thing more 
about his looks. 

We returned to the entry-way in a few moments, 
and although seats in that desired locality were at 
a premium, we were fortunate enough to arrive on 
the scene just as another couple vacated a charm¬ 
ing little nook under the stairs. There we en¬ 
sconced ourselves, I in a comfortable arm-chair 
and Mr. Blake on an ottoman at my feet. We 
talked about all sorts of things, and I found con¬ 
versation much more easy than I expected. Mr. 
Blake was very interesting and pleasant, and after 
a little while he began to tell me something about 
himself. I found out that he was just finishing 
his law studies, and expected before long to prac¬ 
tise for himself. He confided to me that his 
secret ambition in life was to be a writer, and 
that he thought his abilities lay in that direc¬ 
tion, but that he had been obliged to sacrifice his 
tastes to pecuniary considerations, and pursue a 
profession for which he had more or less liking, 
but no decided love. Then he told me about his 
college life, and discoursed beautifully on books. 
He seemed to have read a good deal, especially of 
poetry, and I discovered that his views on art and 
ideals were in many respects similar to my own. 


MY FIRST BALL. 


31 


“ It must be very nice, Mr. Blake,” said I, “ to 
have a regular occupation, and an aim in life. 
Men have such an advantage in that respect over 
us poor girls.” 

“Have they? Yes,” said he, resting his chin 
on his hand with a thoughtful air, “ I suppose 
they have. But think of the responsibilities that 
men have to incur, and the difficulty of living up 
to one’s standard of action in the midst of the 
bustle and turmoil of business life.” 

“ It must be terribly hard; still, I should think 
there would be a great deal of satisfaction in the 
mere consciousness of having a lofty ideal.” 

“ Yes, but much discouragement, too. The 
world is so selfish, and the motives that influence 
people are so degraded.” 

“Do you really think they are, Mr. Blake? 
How dreadful! I hate to think that it is so.” 

“ And then, too, there is something repulsive to 
me in the idea of tying one’s self down for life 
to one pitiful occupation, the principal object of 
which is the mere acquisition of sordid money, 
when there is so much about us in the world that 
might otherwise be enjoyed. Only think of the 
vast treasure-house of pleasure that books con¬ 
tain ! What subtle charms there are in beautiful 
music! or, again, how much joy one might derive 


32 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


from the contemplation and study of Nature in 
her myriad forms! I have often thought that I 
would like to wander off through the world by 
myself, wherever fortune or inclination might 
guide me, seeking to do good, untrammelled by 
wretched codes and conventionalities.” 

As Mr. Blake spoke, he bent towards me with 
a yearning, half-sad expression on his pale face, 
and a mysterious, almost inspired light in his gray 
eyes. “ How splendid,” thought I, “ to have such 
earnest, serious views of life ! ” and I exclaimed,— 

“ Oh, Mr. Blake, I, too, have often thought of 
that. Just like Kenelm Chillingly, you mean.” 

“Yes, Miss Palmer; I had Kenelm Chillingly in 
mind when I spoke. His life has always seemed 
to me almost ideal.” 

“ I am so glad to hear you say so. It is my 
favorite novel, I think. What a delicious sort of 
existence his must have been, roaming through 
the country, incognito and untrammelled, as you 
suggested, by social obligations.” 

Papa at this moment interrupted our tete-a-tete, 
and proceeded, to my consternation, to introduce 
Mr. Gerald Pumystone, who, making me a most 
magnificent bow, exclaimed, with effusion: “ I 

have been trying to be introduced to you all the 
evening, Miss Palmer, but, really, you have been 


MY FIRST BALL. 


33 


so surrounded, you know, that I found it quite 
impossible before.” 

I felt all my fears returning, and I could not 
think of a thing to say. The grandeur of the 
creature appalled me; for, in spite of his foibles, 
I could not help owning to myself that he was 
exceedingly stylish-looking. There was a finish 
about him that others somehow seemed to lack, 
observable even in the exquisite symmetry of his 
white necktie; and, in fact, all the little details of 
dress which men think that girls never notice, were 
evidently, with him, matters of forethought and 
consideration. He appeared so imposing, and 
so frightfully at his ease, that I felt completely 
crushed, and all I managed to stammer out was, 
“ Does n’t the room look lovely?” 

I would have given worlds to have recalled the 
inane speech the moment after I had made it; 
but, fortunately, Mr. Pumystone did not seem to 
consider it out of the way at all. 

“ Oh, charmingly, most charmingly,” he replied ; 
and, with a glance that was intended to be killing, 
he sat down beside me. As he did so, Mr. Blake 
rose from the ottoman, and, expressing the hope 
of seeing me later in the evening, took his de¬ 
parture. 

As a preliminary movement, Mr. Pumystone 

3 


34 THE confessions of a frivofous girl. 

took my fan from my lap, and, having opened it, 
and approached his face much nearer mine than 
was altogether agreeable, proceeded to fan me with 
much apparent devotion. 

“You will excuse me, I know, Miss Palmer,” 
said he, with an extremely confidential air, calcu¬ 
lated to convey the impression that I was very 
dear to him, “ if I say that you are looking charm¬ 
ingly to-night.” 

What reply could I make to such a remark as 
that? I blushed — I could not help blushing, and 
looked down at my flowers. I knew, of course, 
that he did not mean it; still it was a new expe¬ 
rience, and rather amusing, for a change. 

“ I do not think,” pursued he, “ that there is 
any thing in the world that has such an effect on 
me as a beautiful woman, — that is, a truly beau¬ 
tiful woman, beautiful in the artistic sense of the 
word; I despise dolls. Between ourselves, I do 
not care much for society. I go to parties mostly 
pour passer le temps , you know; but I consider 
myself, nevertheless, susceptible, immensely sus¬ 
ceptible, to the influence of beauty. If I were 
a marrying man, which I am not (sometimes 
I think that it would be better for me if I were, 
but that is neither here nor there), I should have 
succumbed long ago.” 


MY FIRST BALL. 


. 35 

“Why do you object to marriage, Mr. Pumy- 
stone?” I asked. “I do not object to marriage 
theoretically, Miss Palmer. For the ordinary 
individual it is highly desirable. But a tempera¬ 
ment like mine would chafe under its restraint. 
I am fickle, very fickle. It is to be regretted, per¬ 
haps, but undeniably the fact; and I am of the 
opinion that my constancy would not bear the 
test of time. My disposition is a very peculiar 
one. It is absolutely necessary que je triamuse, 
amuse myself, you understand. Des beaux yeux 
are indispensable to my happiness, but I must 
have variety, comprenez-vous ?” 

“ I think I do a little.” I did not in the least, 
but I could not bear to appear obtuse. 

“ Speaking of beautiful eyes, Miss Palmer, has 
any one ever told you that yours are what are 
called liquid? They remind me very much of 
those of a dear little English girl, whom I met in 
the Tyrol in the summer of 1876. She had just 
the same large striking violet eyes that you have.” 

I felt that I was blushing up to the organs of 
sight referred to; and, with my head down, I 
began to trifle with my flowers. 

“What nonsense, Mr. Pumystone! You ought 
not to take advantage of my inexperience by say¬ 
ing such things as that.” 


36 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

“ You would agree with me if you could but 
have seen her, Miss Palmer. Elle etait char - 
mante , eblouissante ,” said he; and his eyes, as 
they regarded me, wore such an intense expres¬ 
sion that I felt rather frightened, and changed 
the conversation by asking him to tell me who 
some of the most interesting people about us 
were. 

“You know everybody, of course, Mr. Pumy¬ 
stone.” 

“ I suppose that I do. I always make a point 
of being introduced to every young lady as soon 
as she comes out.” 

“ How very considerate of you ! ” 

Mr. Pumystone gave me a suspicious glance; 
but as my face looked the picture of gravity, he 
replied, “ Oh, no, I prefer it; ” and then asked me 
if I would not like to stroll through the rooms for 
a little while. 

I took his arm, and as we promenaded up and 
down the entry-way, I could not help feeling just 
a little secret thrill of triumph. I knew, instinc¬ 
tively, that Mr. Pumystone was not really so nice, 
in the best sense of the word, as Mr. Blake, even; 
but somehow or other, it flattered me more to be 
seen walking with him. 

His beauty, irreproachable social position (his 


MY FIRST BALL. 


37 


mother was a Vangaasbag), and reputed wealth 
had made him, to such an extent, the cynosure of 
both maidenly and matronly eyes in the gay 
world, that I knew any girl who saw me with 
him would think I was having a perfectly splen¬ 
did time, and that was much more important 
than whether I was really having a splendid time 
or not. 

After wandering about for a little, we had a 
delightful waltz; and, while I was fanning myself, 
in an exhausted condition, produced by the latter, 
I became aware of a young man with tow-colored 
hair, standing beside me, whom I recognized as 
Mr. Jimmy Noble, a Sophomore at Harvard Col¬ 
lege. He made me a most solemn kind of bow, 
and asked, “ Are you engaged for this waltz, 
Miss Palmer?” 

He was evidently young and shy, and seemed 
rather at a loss what to do with his hands. I don’t 
know why exactly, but he gave me the impression 
of being very forlorn. 

“ I have promised Mr. Pumystone to dance it 
with him,” I replied. 

“Oh,” said Mr. Noble. He stood looking at 
me for a moment, blushing, without saying a word. 
Then he asked if I were engaged for the next one. 

“ No,” said I 


38 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

11 May I have the pleasure of dancing it with 
you?” 

“ Certainly,” said I. Whereupon he bowed again 
in the same solemn manner, and walked away. 

“ Do you know that that young man is said to 
be a perfect genius?” said Mr. Pumystone. 

“What! Mr. Noble?” 

“ Yes. He writes poetry and all that kind of 
thing, I believe. He is said to be tremendously 
clever.” 

“Really? Well, I should never have imagined 
it.” 

Our conversation was here interrupted by Mr. 
Blake, who asked permission to introduce a friend 
of his, a Mr. Murray Hill. Upon my informing 
him that I should be very glad to know the latter, 
Mr. Blake winked his eye, or made some other 
sign, to a young man leaning against the wall on 
the other side of the room, who immediately began 
to stroll in my direction, and being met half-way 
by his friend, took his arm, and was formally 
introduced to me. Before we had any opportunity 
to say any thing, Mr. Pumystone slipped quietly 
away with the remark that he should see me later 
in the evening. 

The first thing I noticed about Mr. Hill was 
that his gloves were not very clean, and that 


MY FIRST BALL. 


39 


there was a big rent in the right one, where the 
thumb joins the palm. In the effort to make the 
button and button-hole meet across his thick mus¬ 
cular wrist, he had evidently over-estimated the 
elasticity of the kid. He was a powerful-looking 
young man, with a serious, determined expres¬ 
sion and a massive brow. His utterance was 
rapid and impulsive, and occasionally, as I subse¬ 
quently noticed, he would, when excited by what 
he was saying, give vent to a little guttural sound, 
that resembled a snort more than any thing else, 
and push back over his forehead, with his hand, 
his dark hair, which protruded forward too much 
to be stylish. 

“ This is your first party, I believe, Miss 
Palmer?” said he, in a formal, respectful way, 
that was very gentlemanly, but did not cause me 
the slightest thrill. 

“ Yes, I am what is called a ‘ bud,’ ” said I, with 
a smile. 

“ Are there many young ladies who are coming 
out this winter, besides yourself ? ” 

“ About forty-five, I believe.” 

“ What a large number! ” said he, sedately. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I suppose that you are looking forward to this 
winter with great satisfaction.” 


40 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

“ I think I shall like society very much, Mr. Hill. 
It is delightful so far.” 

“ I am glad that you have found it so,” said he, 
with a serious bow, intended to be complimentary. 

“ Supper is ready, Miss Palmer, I believe. May 
I have the pleasure of taking you in?” said Mr. 
Blake, at this moment. 

“ Thank you,” said I. 

“ Are you engaged for the German this even¬ 
ing, Miss Palmer? ” asked Mr. Hill. 

“ No, I did n’t know there was to be one.” 

“Yes, after supper. Mrs. Van Amburgh has 
asked me to lead it. I am her nephew, you know, 
and as my partner, Miss Van Rooster, is prevented 
from coming to-night, will you do me the honor 
of taking her place?” continued Mr. Hill. 

“ Thank you very much,” said I, and as I 
walked away on the arm of Mr. Blake, I thought 
to myself, “ Oh, what bliss to lead the German 
at my first party, but how hateful it was of him to 
let me know that I am second fiddle! ” 

We were among the last in the procession filing 
down the staircase to supper, which had been laid 
out in the dining-room on the lower story. The 
supper-room was already crowded to overflowing, 
and even in the hall there was such a crush that 
my partner was beginning to despair of finding a 


MY FIRST BALL. 


4 r 


seat for me, when I perceived Grace Irving sig¬ 
nalling from a corner, where she was keeping 
guard over a chair that she had reserved for me. 

“What will you have for supper?” asked Mr. 
Blake, as soon as I was comfortably established 
beside Miss Irving. 

“ Oh, I don’t know, —any thing,” said I. 

“ But you must choose.” 

“ I can’t. Bring me something nice, — oysters, 
ice-cream, or any thing.” 

Then I turned to Grace, and while Mr. Blake 
was gone, we enjoyed a hurried interchange of 
confidences. We seemed to have had equally 
delightful experiences, and it was difficult to say 
which of us was the more enthusiastic in our ex¬ 
pressions. I now had, for the first time during the 
evening, an opportunity to collect my scattered 
senses and look about me a little. From where 
I sat in the hall, I could catch glimpses in the 
room beyond of a circle of young men, three deep, 
gathered around what was presumably the supper- 
table, and all the available space between them 
and us was occupied by a nearly solid jam of 
girls, clustered together in chairs. A sea of black- 
coated individuals, deftly balancing plates laden 
with all kinds of delicacies, were struggling in the 
hope of ultimately reaching their partners through 


42 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


the mazes of this mass of beauty, to the imminent 
peril of the latter, as was instanced in more than 
one case by the crash of falling glass and the 
spectacle of dripping garments. 

Mr. Blake returned presently with my supper, 
and a napkin, almost as large as a table-cloth, 
which he proceeded to spread over my lap. I 
managed to trifle with a little chicken-salad, but 
I felt much too excited to eat. I sent him, how¬ 
ever, for a glass of water, which refreshed me 
immensely. Several young men took advantage 
of its being supper-time to be introduced to me, 
and at one time I had as many as six talking to me 
at once. I found it quite impossible not to con¬ 
found them with one another, and my head spun 
round and round in the effort to recollect all their 
names. I made the acquaintance, among others, 
of the gentleman who had discussed my merits 
with Mr. Pumystone, an hour before, and whom, 
during my bird’s-eye view from the curve in'the 
staircase, I had mentally characterized as “ an 
interesting-looking creature.” I found him more 
fascinating even than I had expected. He had a 
low melodious voice, with which he whispered 
delightful little speeches into my ear, with an air 
of respectful devotion that quite charmed me. I 
noticed that he was a trifle coarse-looking, and 


MY FIRST BALL. 


43 


something instinctively told me I must be on my 
guard against him; but of all the men whom 
I had seen, I felt that he (his name was Mr. Harry 
Coney) excited me the most. 

After a little while Mr. Coney induced me 
to go upstairs again, and, leaning on his arm, 
I promenaded through the vacant cooled-off 
rooms, listening to most amusing stories, and re¬ 
ceiving subtle compliments, between which and Mr. 
Pumystone’s garish attempts there was as much 
difference as there is between a lovely oil-paint¬ 
ing and a chromo. Once when I passed Mamma, 
I observed that she did not look over-pleased, 
and frowned at me, as if to indicate that I was 
doing something of which she did not approve, 
but I quieted my conscience with the reflec¬ 
tion that it was very likely my dress or some¬ 
thing about my expression that had disturbed 
her. 

As soon as the music began again, our tite-a-tite 
was interrupted by the approach of Mr. Jimmy 
Noble, who reminded me, in faltering tones, that 
this was the waltz I had promised him. Mr. 
Coney looked unspeakable things, but I felt that 
it was necessary to keep my word, and with a 
chafing spirit, half escorted by, half dragging Mr 
Noble, I returned to the dancing-room. 


44 THE confessions of a frivolous girl. 


“ If he dances well,” said I to myself, “ I can 
forgive him a great deal.” The room was rather 
crowded, but Mr. Noble, nothing daunted, whirled 
me into the thick of the throng. For a moment 
all went well, and then, O horrors! my partner 
began to wobble about in a very ungraceful man¬ 
ner, and I felt his feet come rudely in contact with 
mine. Our motions began to resemble those of a 
cockle-boat in a raging sea, and we seemed to hop 
up and down without making any progress. 

“ Oh, oh, Miss Palmer, excuse me. I am a little 
rusty. I am not dancing well this evening,” mur¬ 
mured he, plaintively. 

“ It is all my fault, Mr. Noble,” said I. 

“Not at all. Oh no, it’s mine, I am aw—” 
The remainder of his reply was lost, for Mr. Noble 
having just then, in the endeavor to get into step 
again, made a sort of plunge or swoop, resembling 
the motion of a planchette-board, from one corner 
of the room to the other, we came violently in con¬ 
tact with two other couples, somebody planted an 
elbow in the middle of my back, and a second 
after, Mr. Noble and I were dashed breathless, and 
all in a bunch, against the wall. 

“ Oh dear, how very awkward ! I am really very 
sorry. The floor was so slippery,” sputtered out 
the unfortunate young man, who was blushing like 


MY FIRST BALL. 45 

a June rose, and who looked the picture of 
misery. 

“ Oh, it does n’t matter at all, Mr. Noble,” I 
replied as sweetly as possible; but despair and 
rage were in my heart, for I saw that large frag¬ 
ments of my flounces were dragging over the floor. 
Opening my fan, I began to fan myself energeti¬ 
cally as an outlet to my pent-up feeling. 

Poor Mr. Noble stood beside me, looking very 
meek and unhappy. Presently he asked, “ May 
I not fan you, Miss Palmer?” 

“ Oh no, thank you, I am quite cool now.” 

Fortunately, Mr. Murray Hill at this moment 
came up, and said that it was time for the “ German.” 
Seats for this delightful dance had been arranged, 
during supper-time, around the reception-room, 
the idea being that the couples should sit there 
and leave the dancing-room clear for the figures. 
Mr. Hill escorted me to a chair in one corner, 
which he said was the “ head,” and left me to 
ruminate, while he endeavored to make the other 
dancers take their seats. I noticed that a favorite 
device for securing good seats was to tie a hand¬ 
kerchief to a couple of chairs, beforehand, which 
gave the owner of the handkerchief an indisputa¬ 
ble right to their possession. Every thing was at 
last reduced to order, and the array of lovely girls, 


4 6 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

with their partners, that encircled the room, formed 
certainly a most picturesque sight, and I could not 
but feel elated to think that I was the happy leader 
of it all. Miss Van Amburgh had deemed it in 
better taste not to lead herself, and had taken a 
seat about the middle of the German. 

When all was ready, Mr. Hill gave a signal, and 
the first four couples began to waltz with all their 
might and main. 

“ It is the right and left figure,” said my partner 
in my ear, while we were whirling around with the 
others. 

“ Oh yes. But what am I to do? ” 

“ You must take out some gentleman.” 

This was dreadful. I did not have the least idea 
whom to choose. We stopped waltzing, and I 
looked, in a bewildered manner, round the circle 
without seeming to see any one whom I knew. 
Finally I said, “ I will take out Mr. Pumystone.” 

Mr. Hill led me up to him, and I timidly put 
out my hand to signify that he was to come out. 
He sprang forward with alacrity, beaming all over. 

“ I feel very much flattered, I am sure, Miss 
Palmer,” said he, as he led me into the other 
room. 

“What do we do next?” said I. I knew per¬ 
fectly well, but it was necessary to say something, 


MY FIRST BALL. 47 

“ Watch me, watch me; it is very simple,” re¬ 
plied he. 

We all formed a ring, and at a sign from the 
leader, we went round the circle from right to left, 
giving an alternate hand to each person that we 
met. Those who knew one another would ac¬ 
company the movement with a friendly shake of 
the hand. As soon as we rotated back to the one 
whom we had taken out, the circle was dissolved 
by everybody’s beginning to waltz again. 

Mr. Pumystone conducted me back to my seat, 
and after a few words returned to his own. 

And now followed an hour of happiness that I 
shall always recall with rapture. I feel sure that 
I shall never again experience such thrills of delight 
as I enjoyed during this my first German. Every 
one was so kind to me that I completely forgot 
my identity, and almost fancied that Mrs. Van 
Amburgh’s ball-room was fairy-land, and I a fa¬ 
bled princess. It seemed too wonderful for belief, 
that the brilliant, audacious being now whirling 
over the floor in a sea of tattered tulle was really 
I, the timid, simple school-girl of yesterday. I 
think that I must have danced at least twice with 
every young man in the room, and there were 
some who seemed never to leave my side. As 
my partner had to attend to the German, I saw 


48 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

very little of him, except in the intervals between 
the figures; but Mr. Pumystone, Mr. Blake, and 
two or three others were battling perpetually for 
his chair, which annoyed Mr. Hill a little, I 
thought. I did n’t see why it should, I am 
sure. 

Last of all, to crown the evening, came the 
bouquet figure, as it was called, which consisted 
simply in taking out some one of the opposite 
sex, and presenting her or him, as the case might 
be, with a lovely bunch of flowers or a boutormiere. 
I was dreadfully afraid that I should not get any, 
for I had already been taken out a great deal more 
than my share. But fortune, or whatever divinity 
it is that presides over the destinies of “ buds,” 
was kinder than my fears. One — two — three — 
four (this from Mr. Pumystone, with’ a wealth 
of compliment)—five — six (poor little Jimmy 
Noble’s)—seven — eight (from Mr. Coney, I was 
nearly tickled to death by it) beauties fell to my 
lot; and last of all, Mr. Blake, with a slight blush, 
and a look of embarrassment, that made me feel a 
little awkward too, held out to me a cluster of 
roses, with the words, — 

“ Miss Palmer, I have been waiting ever so long 
to give you these. I hope you have enjoyed your 
evening.” 


MY FIRST BAIL. 


49 


“ Oh yes; and I am so much obliged, Mr. 
Blake, for all your kindness.” 

Mr. Blake mumbled something in reply, which 
I failed to catch (we were dancing at the time) ; 
and as he left me at my seat, seemed very shy and 
peculiar. 

And whom did I give my boutonniere to ? I hear 
some one ask. I did not want to give it to any¬ 
body; but since it seemed to be necessary, I 
presented mine to Mr. Coney. Mr. Blake was 
standing near by at the time, and I thought that 
he looked very unhappy because I did not give it 
to him, which was, of course, half the fun. The 
recipient of my favor, when our waltz was over, 
gave me a long look from his dark eyes, touched 
the rose that I had given him to his lips, and with 
a low bow, withdrew. Lost in reverie, I was 
dreaming of I know not what, when I suddenly 
became aware that my partner, Mr. Hill, was 
standing in front of me. 

“ Miss Palmer,” said he, “ there is one bouquet 
left. Will you let me make you a present of 
it?” 

“ Oh, thank you, Mr. Hill; but I have so many. 
I mean I have been so lucky that — don’t you 
think it would be better to give it to one of the 
girls who has not got any?” 


4 


50 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

A shadow came over Mr. Hill’s face, and he 
looked hurt. What touchy creatures men are! 
How could I have known that he really wanted 
me to have it? I supposed, of course, that he 
had offered it to me only out of politeness. 

“ You had better take it,” said he, coldly. 

“ Well; if you insist. Thank you, very much; ” 
and then I felt I had not treated him quite kindly, 
so I continued, — “ You don’t know how much 
I have enjoyed myself to-night, Mr. Hill. I shall 
always remember my first German as one of the 
epochs of my life.” 

He brightened up at once on hearing this, and 
said, — 

“ Of course you understood that, owing to my 
having to lead the German, I have not been able 
to see so much of you as I should have liked.” 

“ Oh, certainly, Mr. Hill; I understood perfectly. 
You must be very tired; are n’t you? ” 

“ Not a bit. It is rather a new experience for 
me to lead, and therefore amusing. I don’t go 
to parties much, as a rule.” 

“Why not, Mr. Hill?” 

“ I don’t have time.” 

“Well, I can’t imagine how any one who is 
invited can help going to a German. I think 
they are more fun than any thing on earth. Oh, 


MY FIRST BALL. 


51 


Mr. Hill, here comes my mother. I suppose that 
means that it is time to go home; I don’t want to 
go at all.” 

“ Come, Alice,” said Mamma, who was on the 
arm of Colonel Huckins, “ we had better be going; 
it is after one o’clock.” 

“ Oh, a little longer, Mamma.” 

“ No, dear.” 

“Just a little — only ten minutes.” 

“Yes; only ten minutes, Mrs. Palmer,” cried 
kind-hearted Colonel Huckins. 

“ Do let her stay, Mrs. Palmer. Miss Palmer 
only asks for ten minutes,” said my partner. 

“ Miss Palmer,” whispered a pathetic voice at 
my side, “won’t you give me one last turn?” It 
was Mr. Manhattan Blake. 

“ Ask Mamma,” I replied, with a wicked glance 
from my eyes. 

“Just one turn, Mrs. Palmer, — a very short 
one,” besought Mr. Blake. 

“ Well,” said Mamma, hesitating. “ But mind, 
only ten minutes.” And off I rushed on the arm 
of Mr. Blake, leaving my partner, poor Mr. Hill, 
looking mad as hops. 

It was the polka redowa, — a dance which, as 
everybody knows, is not very pretty to look at, 
but awfully exciting. Feeling that it was my last 


52 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

chance, I positively tore over the floor, regardless 
of my dress, — there was not much left of it, at any 
rate, — and every thing else, to tell the truth. We 
stopped at last, utterly exhausted, in a corner, as 
far as possible from Mamma. 

“ Miss Palmer,” murmured Mr. Blake, “ thanks 
to you, I have had a most delightful evening.” 

“ Oh, really, Mr. Blake, I don’t see what I had 
to do with it,” I replied, with a little laugh. 

There was a pause for a moment, and I began 
to feel half embarrassed, half inclined to laugh, 
for Mr. Blake looked dreadfully sentimental. I 
did n’t know what to make of it exactly. 

“Won’t you give me a bud to remember this 
evening by? ” said he presently, very shyly. 

“ Oh, I could n’t, Mr. Blake; besides, if you have 
had such a good time, you ought not to need any 
thing to remember it by.” 

“Just one, — a little one.” 

The poor fellow looked so dreadfully in earnest 
that it made me feel quite badly. The idea of his 
caring for a paltry, withered rosebud! What 
geese men are! 

“ You will only fling it in the street the moment 
you leave the house,” said I, looking down, and 
trifling with the roses he had sent me. 

“ That only shows how little you know me, Miss 
Palmer,” sighed he. 


MY FIRST BALL. 


53 


“ I don’t pretend to know you,” I cried, with an 
arch smile. This was cruel, but I could not resist 
the temptation. 

“ You might have a little faith, I think.” 

He said it so nicely that I hesitated; and if a 
woman hesitates, the proverb says there is no use 
in further resistance. So I gave in. “ I will try 
you for once,” said I, with a blush. “ Here ! ” As 
I spoke, I detached a little deep crimson bud from 
his bunch, and reached it out to him. He took it 
from my hand; and, blushing much more than I, 
put it in the left lapel of his coat. 

“You see I have placed it over my heart,” he 
whispered, softly. 

“ What a goose I was to give it to him ! I wish 
I had n’t,” thought I. 

“ Alice! ” It was Mamma’s voice in my ear. 
“ You have been over fifteen minutes already. 
You are not to be trusted, I see.” 

“ I have been all ready for five minutes, Mamma,” 
I protested. 

Taking Mr. Blake’s arm, I followed my mother 
into the other room. Everybody was saying 
good-bye to Mrs. Van Amburgh; and the party 
was evidently breaking up. While I was waiting 
my turn to tell her what a lovely time I had had, 
Mr. Pumystone strolled up, and expressed the 
hope that my evening had been a pleasant one. 


54 THE confessions of a frivolous girl. 

“ Perfectly splendid,” said I. “ Are you going 
to Mrs. Van Rooster’s on Friday?” 

“• Shall you be there, Miss Palmer?” said he. 

“ Yes, I expect to.” 

“In that case je ne vis que pour $a,” and with a 
bow that he would himself have termed resplendis- 
sant y most brilliant, he wished me good-evening, 
and withdrew. 

Mrs. Van Amburgh looked tired and sleepy, 
but she bade us good-bye very sweetly. I whis¬ 
pered to her daughter that the party had ex¬ 
ceeded my wildest imaginings, and kissed her 
affectionately on the cheek. In spite of my rude 
behavior, I found Mr. Hill waiting in the entry 
to ask if he might get my carriage, a favor which 
I granted him, and then, after shaking hands with 
him and Mr. Blake, at the foot of the staircase, 
I went up to the dressing-room. 

Emerging therefrom, five minutes later, in my 
nubia and snowy wraps, both these young men 
were very eager to secure the privilege of putting 
me into my carriage. Mr. Hill went out into the 
street, bare-headed, to look for it, and Mr. Blake 
remained in the vestibule, talking to me. Presently 
some one shouted that Miss Palmer’s carriage was 
at the door, and although I had meant to take Mr. 
Hill’s arm, since he had asked me first, I naturally 


MY FIRST BALL. 


55 


took Mr. Blake’s, because he was close at hand. 
As I tripped down the steps, several familiar 
voices cried “ Good-night,” which I tried to re¬ 
turn as sweetly as possible. Mr. Hill held the 
door of our carriage wide open, and helped 
Mamma and me in. 

“ Oh, you ought not to have come out without 
any thing on, Mr. Hill. You will surely catch 
cold,” said I. 

“ Oh no, I shan’t,” said he; “ good-night.” And 
then he helped Papa in. 

“ Good-night, Mr. Hill. Good-night, Mr. Blake,” 
I cried. 

Just before the door of the carriage closed, Mr. 
Coney, shrouded in a comfortable-looking ulster, 
pressed forward, and shook my hand warmly. 
“ Good-night,” he murmured softly. 

“ Good-night, good-night,” said I, and away 
the carriage rolled, while through the frosty pane 
I saw a half-dozen hats raised in air, and those 
who had no hats on scampering up the door-steps 
to escape from the cold. 

“Well, Alice,” said my father, “did any one 
speak to you ? ” 

“ Oh, Papa, I have had a perfectly glorious 
time. I never had such fun in my life,” I cried, 
flinging myself back on the cushion. 


5 6 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

“And who was the Prince in the fairy tale?” he 
continued. 

“ I don’t understand you, Papa. I did n’t see 
any Prince.” 

“Which of your slaves did you admire most, 
then, since you insist on my being literal?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know; all of them were very nice.” 

“ I was sorry to see, Alice,” said Mamma, “ that 
you seemed to fancy that Mr. Harry Coney. The 
Coneys were nobodies, ten years ago. Besides, 
he has the reputation of being an idle and dis¬ 
sipated young man, and a great flirt. It was he 
who is said to have broken poor Minnie Van 
Rooster’s heart.” 

“ Did he? Oh, how awful! ” said I. “ If I had 
known that, I would never have given him my 
boutonniere. But he seemed very gentlemanly, and 
talked in a most interesting way.” 

“ I would rather see a daughter of mine in her 
coffin than have her marry a man like that,” said 
Mamma, severely. 

“ You had better wait until he asks me, Mamma,” 
I cried, with a pout. 

“That was a nice-looking young man who 
danced the German with you,” said Papa. “ He 
had an intelligent, strong face. He is Mr. Murray 
Hill’s son, I believe?” 


MY FIRST BALL. 


57 


“ Yes, he was very kind,” said I. 

“ I should say he was a very nice fellow. I 
thought he was much more attractive-looking than 
that other dyspeptic youth with the thin face, who 
kept hanging around you.” 

“What, Mr. Manhattan Blake?” 

“ Yes, that is his name, I believe.” 

“ Oh, Papa, Mr. Blake was awfully nice, and I 
liked him ever so much better than Mr. Murray 
Hill. He has so much more interesting ideas of 
things. Mr. Hill is well enough, but he is dread¬ 
fully poky. One can always tell beforehand what 
he is going to say.” 

“ Well, you may know best, but Mr. Blake 
looked to me like what is called a flat.” 

“ Oh, Papa, he is very manly, I know; don’t 
you think that he is, Mamma?” 

“ I hear,” replied Mamma, “ that he is quite an 
exceptional young man, aesthetic, and full of de¬ 
lightful tastes. How did you like Mr. Gerald 
Pumystone, Alice? Isn’t he a charming fellow? 
So attractive, and with such good manners.” 

“ I think he is too ridiculous for any thing, 
Mamma. It is rather good fun to talk to him, 
and he is not ugly, but he is such a goose. 
He positively stuffs compliments down one’s 
throat.” 


58 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

“Nonsense, child. You take things too much 
au serieux . It is only his way. Everybody says 
that he is a delightful young man, and he is in¬ 
dubitably the most desirable parti in town.” 

“ I wbuld n’t marry a man for money for any 
thing, Mamma,” said I, indignantly. 

“ As you yourself remarked, a moment ago, wait 
until he asks you, my dear,” replied Mamma. 

On reaching the house, Mamma insisted on my 
taking a cup of bouillon , which had been left on a 
heater for me, and after drinking that, and putting 
my flowers in a cool place, so that they might look 
respectably on the morrow, I gathered up my 
wraps to go to my room. I felt that I should not 
be able to sleep, and I would have given worlds 
to have had Grace Irving to talk it all over with. 

I said good night to Papa and Mamma, and 
dragged myself slowly up the stairs. “ I wonder,” 
thought I, “ if he really cared to have that rose¬ 
bud. I think he does look a little bit like Kenelm 
Chillingly. How nice that Mr. Harry Coney was, 
too! I dare say it was all Minnie Van Rooster’s 
fault. She looks like a flirt herself.” And thus 
communing with myself, I went into my own room 
and shut the door. 



II. 

FASHIONABLE ^ESTHETICS. 

/^*VNCE fairly launched on the wave of society, 
my life for the next four months was one 
continuous whirl of gayety. Fortunately for me, 
the fashionable world approved of me almost un¬ 
reservedly, and I was registered on the tablet of 
social statistics as a success. Dinners, balls, the 
opera, the sleigh-ride, followed one another in be¬ 
wildering succession. Laden with flowers I went 
forth from the parental roof every evening, and re¬ 
turned to the parental roof, laden with flowers, very 
early every morning. Girl lunches in the forenoon 
and gentlemen callers at five-o’clock tea filled up 
the intervals in days far too short, even when most 
of the night was added to them, for the accomplish¬ 
ment of half that I desired. 

I have heard that a man remains more or less 
callow until he is thirty, but I know from personal 













60 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


experience that even as the dull-hued, common¬ 
place chrysalis changes into the variegated butter¬ 
fly, six weeks of commerce with the world will 
cause the tender bud to germinate into the gor¬ 
geous full-blown rose. Almost within the passing 
of a thought the guileless miss of yesterday is 
transformed into the iron-clad of modern society. 

I know of nothing that will portray so graphi¬ 
cally my impressions at this period as two extracts 
from my diary, written some six weeks after Mrs. 
Van Amburgh’s ball. I append them just as they 
were written at the time, without alteration, save 
for the omission of a few passages which I do not 
feel at liberty to expose to the public eye. 

February 3. 

Yes, I recognize that I am metamorphosed, 
completely changed in the twinkling of an eye, 
as it were. But how changed, or metamorphosed 
into what, I cannot tell. I feel that even to myself 
I have become a charming, but inexplicable enig¬ 
ma ; in my own eyes my simplest action, my every 
word, seems shrouded in solemn mystery. Ever 
and anon, a vague consciousness murmurs that the 
magician who has wrought this spell is man, two- 
legged man, — man, whom three short weeks ago I 
never thought of, save in the category with horses, 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 61 

houses, and trees; thought of as their superior, it 
is true, because endowed with an immortal soul, but, 
like them, merely fragments of the political econ¬ 
omy of the world, in which I sported an artless 
child. And now a subtle, Machiavelian instinct, 
fostered by tradition and the example and pre¬ 
cepts of my entire sex, stirring in my bosom, whis¬ 
pers to me that the mainspring of a woman’s life is 
man. But how? in what manner? “ Marriage,” 
Mamma says. But I don’t want to be married, — 
at least not yet. I am perfectly happy at home, I 
have every thing in the world that I desire. Some 
of the girls talk of the delights of “ settling down,” 
but they are apt to be girls with only one string to 
their bow. I’m sure I don’t care to settle down. 
The idea has no charms for my imagination. On 
the contrary, it is positively repulsive to me. 
Whom, to begin with, could I “ settle down ” with, 
if I wanted to ? But if not by marriage, how then ? 
There is the rub. I do not know. Sometimes, 
however, the thought steals over me, and I think 
that it may be actually the truth, that what I yearn 
for is friendship with man, — one or two real genu¬ 
ine men friends; men who will be willing to discuss 
interesting questions, give me their ideas on the 
problems of life, and tell me every thing about 
themselves. I don’t know why it should be so, 


62 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


but nothing is more enjoyable to me than to con¬ 
verse about love in the abstract with an attractive 
man. General admiration is very flattering to one’s 
amour propi'e , of course, and all these beautiful 
flowers that I am constantly receiving are delight¬ 
ful as collaterals, so to speak, and I would not have 
them cease for any thing; but is not this perpetual 
German, this everlasting whirling over a polished 
floor with a formal society acquaintance whom one 
never gets to know any better, just a little bit un¬ 
satisfactory? It never seems to lead to any thing. 
I don’t know what I would want it to lead to, but I 
should like to have it lead to something. 

Speaking of men, I feel somehow that I am get¬ 
ting to know Mr. Murray Hill better every day. 
He is ever so much nicer than I ever thought he 
could be. He is entirely different from Mr. Man¬ 
hattan Blake, of course, and it would be impossible 
to feel any particular thrill in talking with him, 
but his peculiarities are not nearly so noticeable 
as they were at first, and what he says is very 
interesting. Besides, it makes Mr. Blake perfectly 
wretched to see me with Mr. Hill. But that does 
not prove any thing, because melancholy is Mr. 
Blake’s normal condition. I shall never forget 
the expression of gloom that came over his face 
the other evening, when he found Mr. Hill playing 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 


63 


duets with me in the music-room; as if I had n’t 
the right to play with whomever I liked. I hope 
they won’t take it into their heads to call on the 
same evening again, though. It was one of the 
ghastliest hours I ever passed. They were both 
of them as mum as statues, and I had to make all 
the “ running,” as the phrase is, myself. 

By the way, what an absurd being that Gerald 
Pumystone is! I actually enjoy talking to him 
for the amusement I derive from his conceit. I 
don’t believe that there is a more transparent, 
tactless individual in all New York, and yet he evi¬ 
dently considers himself, and is morally sure that 
we all consider him, a masterpiece of subtlety, wit, 
and fascination. No one denies, of course, that 
his family is very old, and all that, but I can’t see 
why that should be a reason for speaking to girls 
as if one was conferring a personal favor on them. 
Why, he actually had the audacity to tell me, the 
other day, that there were only half a dozen girls 
in society whom he should feel himself justified in 
marrying, if he were a marrying man. Justified, 
indeed ! I pity the future Mrs. Gerald with all my 
heart. But then, of course, he is very useful, and 
when he chooses can make a girl enjoy herself, 
because he has advantages in the way of horses 
and leisure time, that other men don’t have; so it 


64 the confessions of a frivolous girl. 

would be foolish to be otherwise than on good 
terms with him. Mamma would like to have me 
marry him, I know. Poor Mamma! 

I went to walk one afternoon last week with Mr. 
Manhattan Blake. We chose a street rather out 
of the beaten track, and had a most delightful 
discussion as to whether it was nicer to love or 
to be loved. Mr. Blake began by thinking that 
he would prefer to be loved, but I finally brought 
him over to the other side, on the ground that to 
love is so much more unselfish. What a strange, 
interesting man he is! He confided to me, to¬ 
day, that he did not believe any thing; that he 
had struggled hard to find some truth in the 
threadbare dogmas of Christianity, as he called 
them, but had hopelessly failed, and was now 
drifting slowly but surely, he feared, into the 
school of materialism (or some such horrid place, 
I think he said “ materialism”). 

“What!” said 1, “you don’t believe in the 
Bible, Mr. Blake? How awful!” 

“ No, Miss Palmer, I can’t accept things on trust, 
the way most men do. I am differently consti¬ 
tuted. My class of mind refuses to recognize the 
existing order of things simply because they exist. 
The specious prattle of the nineteenth-century 
theologians has no more effect upon me, as ar- 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 


65 


gument, than water upon a duck’s back. Their 
sentiments do great credit to their hearts, undoubt¬ 
edly, and for a certain class of people instruction 
of that nature is still highly to be desired; but 
when it comes to asking me to accept their utter¬ 
ances as revealed religion, I smile, — a mournful 
smile, it is true, the smile of the iconoclast, who 
has nothing to suggest as a substitute, but still a 
smile.” 

“ How dreadful, Mr. Blake! I have heard of 
atheists, but I never met one before,” said I. 

He smiled a sad smile, as if my words wounded 
him, and a look almost of suffering stole across 
his features, as he replied, “ Taking my words in 
a narrow, literal sense, I undoubtedly deserve that 
harsh appellative, Miss Palmer; but I doubt, yes, 
I gravely doubt, whether I ought yet justly to be 
classed with those who utterly deny the existence 
of any theistic principle. Call me a groper if you 
will, style me even a materialistic sceptic, but the 
term atheist hardly describes my mode of thought. 
The expression is almost, if I may say so, too 
commonplace. A great many men are atheists. 
I know of but few who share my opinions, who 
sympathize with my ideas.” 

“What precisely are your ideas, Mr. Blake?” 

“I fear that it would be impossible to make 
5 


66 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


them altogether intelligible to you, but I will try, 
perhaps, some day, — not now. My fervent hope 
is, you may never know the mental anguish that 
I have known, pass through the bitter experi¬ 
ences that I have undergone.” There were tears 
in his voice. He raised his hand as if to check 
the words of sympathy about to flow from my 
lips, and, lifting his hat (we were at my door), 
turned abruptly, and went down the street. 

I wonder what the experiences that he referred 
to were. I would give any thing to know. 

Mr. Murray Hill has been to see me a great 
deal lately, and he has sent me several beautiful 
baskets of flowers. Flowers are such pretty em¬ 
blems of friendship. He spent yesterday after¬ 
noon here. I asked him if he liked the “ Medical 
School,” and he discoursed for three-quarters of 
an hour on bones. He seems tremendously en¬ 
grossed in his profession. I inquired, in order to 
appear interested, what a bone was made of; and 
he replied, as glibly as could be, “ phosphate and 
carbonate of lime, phosphate of magnesia and am¬ 
monia, oxide of iron, oxide of manganese, a little 
alumina and silica, and some traces of gelatine, fat, 
and water.” 

Only think of ha\|ing to remember such things 
as that! I made him write it all down. I sup- 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 


67 


pose that it is awfully frivolous and unappreciative 
to feel so, but I do not enjoy bones as a topic 
of conversation. They make me feel creepy. 

The last part of the time I got him talking 
about himself. He told me about his family, and 
which of them he liked best, — also some of their 
peculiarities. I should think he was a very kind- 
hearted, amiable man, and one cannot help respect¬ 
ing him immensely. 

I cannot see why Mamma should object so 
much to poor Harry Coney. She declares that 
all he is after is my money, and that he is a 
horrid adventurer. I don’t believe it; and I think 
it is a most humiliating idea to conclude that 
a man has designs simply because he is polite. 
I know, of course, that he has the reputation of 
being a little fast, and I dare say his life is de¬ 
void of any lofty purpose; but, as I am always on 
my guard, and if he says any thing at all risque , 
show him plainly that I do not like it, I do not 
see the use of giving him the cold shoulder. 
Merely in a society way, he is the most fascinating 
man I ever met. His whispers are positively 
divine. I spent part of last evening with him, 
under the stairs, at Mrs. Gatling Gunn’s; and just 
as I was in the seventh heaven, who should come 
up but Mr. Murray Hill, and ask me to waltz. 


68 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


Of course I had to say “Yes,” especially as he 
had sent me a lovely bouquet that evening; but 
I could have pounded him into little pieces for 
interrupting us. 

The Hon. Hare Hare, an Englishman visiting 
this country, and staying at Mrs. Gatling Gunn’s, 
was introduced to me, last week. I think that he 
has dreadful manners; but every one says that he 
is very much “ the thing” in his own country. 

February 15. 

Lent will soon be at hand, and then good-by for 
this season to Germans and large balls. It is con¬ 
sidered, however, perfectly correct to go to dinners, 
“ teas,” and little affairs during the holy period, and 
Mrs. Gatling Gunn assures me they are the pleas¬ 
antest portion of society life. It may be so, but 
I feel certain that I shall sigh for the dear old 
waltz. I don’t believe any dinner on earth could 
compare with my last German at the “ Patri¬ 
archs’.” I had a perfectly gorgeous time. I got 
eleven bouquets in the flower figure and nine “ fa¬ 
vors” in the favor figure; the favors being silver 
glove-buttoners with mother-of-pearl handles. I 
danced with Mr. Gatling Gunn, who was angelic. 

The Gatling Gunns have taken me up lately. 
She is perfectly charming. Her maiden name 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 69 

was Marshmellow. and her antecedents were not, I 
believe, particularly fashionable before Mr. Marsh- 
mellow made a great deal of money in something 
called a Bonanza. Her husband, Mr. Gatling Gunn, 
is of course in a social sense creme de la creme y 
and some people were surprised at his marrying 
giddy Birdie Marshmellow, as she was called. But 
she has now one of the most attractive establish¬ 
ments in New York, and everybody is wild to go 
to her reunions. Her sister, Peepy Marshmellow, 
who “ came out ” this winter, lives with her, and she, 
as well as Mrs. Gunn, seems to have taken a great 
fancy to me. Mamma rather turns up her nose at 
our intimacy, but acknowledges that one meets the 
nicest people in New York at her entertainments. 

Mrs. Gunn is devoted to art among other things. 
Her rooms are furnished in exquisite taste, and 
abound in lovely pictures and embroideries and 
the dearest and oldest things in the pottery line. 
Her “ holy of holies/’ as she terms her pet parlor, 
is lighted by seven moderateur lamps with tissue- 
paper shades, each of a different color, that hang 
down in long irregular points like icicles. She de¬ 
clares that the subdued tinged light that these pro¬ 
duce is much preferable to gas. What a curious 
woman she is! I have never met such an enter¬ 
taining person in my life, but when I overheard 


70 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

Papa the other day, after dinner, say to Mr. Sto- 
nenger, that she was a “ rattler,” I felt there was a 
great deal of truth in the remark. 

The manner in which she pronounces her name 
amuses me immensely. We happened to be sit¬ 
ting chatting in her boudoir a few days ago, and 
I asked her the reason of it. “ My dear Alice,” 
she replied, “you are behind the age. We call the 
trimming on this cloak ‘skoonk;’ why not then 
4 Gunn ’ ‘ Goon ’ ? ” 

After that she went on to give me a lecture, as 
she called it. She insists that I am altogether too 
much of a little Goody Two Shoes, and am throw¬ 
ing myself away. “ Chic is what you need,” said 
she. “ If a girl wants to be a genuine success, it is 
her duty to walk as if she were a great deal hand¬ 
somer than she is, and then people will think her 
handsomer than she is. You are perfectly lovely, 
my dear, and there is in you the material for a 
masterpiece; but you will excuse me, I know, if I 
say that you walk and hold yourself twenty-five per 
cent ‘ off’ your looks, instead of fifty per cent in 
advance as you ought to do. It is a failing indige¬ 
nous to Boston girls, and may be an inheritance, 
for your dear Mamma was brought up in that strait, 
crooked little town. So it is not entirely your 
fault; but you must take pains to correct it.” 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 71 

“ And then, too,” she continued, throwing over 
the back of the lounge on which she was reclining 
one graceful arm and hand, from which still hung 
pendent the French novel the perusal of which my 
advent had interrupted, and fixing her restless eyes 
intently upon my face, “ you strike me as too inno¬ 
cent, — or say rather, my dear, too ingenue. The 
modest blush and the downcast eye become a 
girl charmingly for the first two weeks of her 
career, but after that period they are simply gau- 
cheries. To affect the ingenue is quite another 
matter, and as different from what I refer to as 
champagne is from seltzer. As to its efficacy, 
tastes differ of course. Individually I never prac¬ 
tise it. It does n’t suit my style of beauty. But 
that is neither here nor there. What I object to is 
the artlessness of nature. It may win you a hus¬ 
band, but society will shelve you.” 

“ But what would you have me do, Mrs. Gunn? 
You surely would not have me gush! ” I ex¬ 
claimed. 

“ Heaven forbid, my child. But there are other 
roles than those of the Pussy-cat or the Chatterbox. 
O Alice, what would I not have given to have had 
as a girl your opportunities ! My fame would have 
reached the stars. Only think of the disadvantages 
against which I have had to struggle! To begin 


72 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

with, I was and always shall be vulgar, essentially 
vulgar. Don’t contradict me, for I know perfectly 
well that it is so. I manage generally at this stage 
of the game to hide it pretty well, but upon occa¬ 
sions it crops out in spite of me. I recognize in 
my heart of hearts, my love, that by birth and 
education I am roturifre. You have doubtless 
heard it whispered — it is a current scandal about 
town—that my father began life as a rag-picker. 
It is an audacious falsehood. The truth is,—you 
must never breathe it to any one, child, — he was 
for many years a butcher, and my earliest recollec¬ 
tion of him is in a white apron with a cleaver 
in his hand. It used to be my delight as a 
little girl to stand beside the block in his shop, 
and watch him trim the meat for his customers. 
He made money—no matter how — while I was 
still young, and my mother, who was a sensible 
though ignorant woman, tried her best to make 
up for lost time in our education. You know the 
rest. I had genius, — I budded into rapid, giddy 
Birdie Marshmellow. I had ambition, — to-day I 
am the idol of the fashionable world, the clever 
Mrs. Gatling Gunn. But spite of my successes, my 
respected parent’s beefsteaks and saddles of mutton 
still sully my mental visions, and I shall never for¬ 
get, if I live to be one hundred, that these be- 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 


73 


jewelled fingers have been in contact with raw chops. 
I can see it in my sister, though, to tell the truth, 
she is worse than I have ever been. Compared 
with you, for instance, we are both of us iron pots 
beside a silver vase. If now you and I could but 
be moulded into one, what a consummate creature 
would be the outcome of the process! You have 
every thing that I lack, and I — of your future I 
do not despair, but at present I have something 
that you lack and without which you can never 
rule supreme over the fashionable world. Have 
you ever seen the Cancan , my dear? No, of course 
not. Well, it is a dance that one sees sometimes 
on the stage, — rather a naughty dance,—into which 
the performers throw themselves with such gusto 
and abandon that they seem to have merged every 
thing else in life in the pleasure of dancing like mad. 

“ Now, in order to become what is called in soci¬ 
ety a screaming success, — to become even a Mrs. 
Gatling Gunn, — one must, in figurative language, 
dance the Cancan, and dance it well too. I can 
dance it like a Parisienne, but then, you see, I am 
a soupqon vulgar. Voila failure number one. You 
are refined, spirituelle, lovely; but you do not, or 
will not, or perhaps cannot dance the Cancan. 
Voila failure number two. Comprenez-vons } ma 
cherie t ” 


74 THE confessions of a frivolous girl. 


With these last words Mrs. Gunn rose gayly from 
the lounge, and, gathering in her hand the train of 
the morning wrapper that clothed her graceful 
figure, executed for my edification a few steps of a 
fascinating pas seal, singing at the same time in 
a bewitching manner this little chanson from the 
French: — 

“ De la mere Angot j’ suis la fille, 

J’ suis la fille ; 

Et la fille Angot tient de famille, 

Tient de famille. 

Regardez moi, 

Regardez moi, 

• La fille de la mere Angot. 

Regardez moi, 

Regardez moi, 

La fille de la mere Angot! ” 

“ My dear child,” she cried, sinking back upon 
the sofa in a state of semi-exhaustion, “ if your ex¬ 
cellent Mamma knew that I had been putting such 
ideas into your head, she would have me boiled 
alive.” 

I do not suppose that Mamma would be over¬ 
pleased, but there is a great deal of truth in what 
Mrs. Gunn says, after all. I understand perfectly 
what she means by saying that I walk twenty-five 
per cent “ off” my looks. There is no use in being 
droopy, and I shall try to reform. What a fasci¬ 
nating woman she is! I verily believe she could 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 


75 


turn any one that she wished round her little fin¬ 
ger. It must certainly be a very attractive life to 
be a leader in society. I think that I have at times 
experienced that Cancan feeling that she spoke of. 
I remember that when I was driving on Mr. Com¬ 
ing Gowing’s drag one day last week with a lot of 
swell people, I was so carried away by excite¬ 
ment that I was conscious of being a great deal 
more of a success than usual. Still, the idea 
of settling down into a mere society woman is an¬ 
tagonistic to all my former views of life. This is a 
strange world. 

About three weeks subsequent to the date of 
this last extract from my diary, something hap¬ 
pened which I knew that girls were liable to have 
happen to them, but which it had never entered 
my head would ever happen to me, — at least not 
for ever so long yet. Mr. Murray Hill asked me 
to become his wife. What induced him to I can¬ 
not imagine. I was awfully sorry, first, because of 
the great pain that my telling him I could n’t evi¬ 
dently occasioned him, and then on account of the 
necessary interruption to our friendship, which had 
given me so much pleasure. 

I had really grown to like him immensely, and he 
had told me so much about himself that I felt we 


y6 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

were quite intimate. I respected him ever so much, 
and valued his opinion as an opinion more than 
that of any young man of my acquaintance. I 
knew of course, if I ever thought about it at all, 
that he probably liked me well enough, because he 
seemed to enjoy coming to see me and sent me 
flowers and bonbons quite often; but I never im¬ 
agined for a moment that he cared for me in that 
way. He never paid compliments nor made ten¬ 
der speeches, as some men who say that they admire 
me do, and although he sometimes talked very 
earnestly, it was always about something imper¬ 
sonal, which had no particular relation to me. He 
used to get me quite interested in his various plans 
and theories. Sometimes he would even ask my 
advice, or inquire how I would like to have him 
act in a certain case, which made me feel that he 
reposed confidence in me, which was very nice 
indeed. 

Mamma chanced to say to me about a fortnight 
before it happened: “Isn’t Mr. Hill becoming 
rather attentive, Alice? This is the third bouquet 
he has sent you this month.” 

“ Nonsense, Mamma,” I replied ; “ we are the best 
of friends, nothing more.” But I took pains, never¬ 
theless, to be a little cold the next two or three times 
we met, in order to be on the safe side. In the 


FASHIONABLE ^ESTHETICS. 77 

face of this precautionary measure, what followed, 
needless to say, took me completely by surprise. 

Mr. Hill had called upon me on each of the two 
days immediately preceding the eventful one, and 
we had had quite lengthy interviews. I had no¬ 
ticed at the time that he seemed abstracted and 
rather queer, and once it flashed across me, when he 
said something about having pressed a rosebud that 
I had given him in his favorite book of poetry, “ Can 
it be possible that this man is in love with me?” 
But it was only a passing thought, to which I gave 
little heed. “ He knows nothing about you at all. 
You have never told him any thing about yourself. 
It is too absurd. It cannot be,” said I to myself. 

Looking at it after it was all over, I could not 
discover that I had been to blame in any way. It 
was very unfortunate, very sad, and of course I felt 
terribly about it. If I had only known, if I could 
only have divined in any way the actual state of 
the case, I should have acted very differently and 
it need never have happened. But how could l 
have told? Mamma says that if young men send 
flowers to a girl they are supposed to be in earnest. 
However that may have been in her day, it is n’t so 
now. I know of lots of girls who receive flowers 
continually from men who I am sure don’t care a 
straw about them. The men have told me them¬ 
selves that they did not care. 


78 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

It took place in the evening. Mamma had gone 
out to dinner, and I was sitting alone in the parlor 
reading Wordsworth’s “ Laodamia,” which Mr. Hill 
had lent to me. He came in with such a noiseless 
step that he was beside my sofa before I knew that 
he was in the room. 

“ Don’t rise, I beg. What book are you read¬ 
ing?” said he confusedly, taking my hand and 
looking at me in a way that he had never done 
before. 

It makes me draw in like a sea-anemone to have 
any one whom I don’t like very, very much behave 
affectionately to me, and I replied as frigidly as 
was consistent with politeness, “ Don’t you recog¬ 
nize your book, Mr. Hill? I was just looking it 
over. Please sit down.” And before he could 
take a seat beside me on the sofa I had . slipped 
into a straight-backed chair. 

I then perceived that he was rather more care¬ 
fully dressed than usual. His white cravat was 
quite artistically tied, and he had had his hair cut. 
“ You really look handsome to-night. Wherefore 
this magnificence?” thought I to myself. 

We began to discuss the beauties of “ Laodamia; ” 
but Mr. Hill seemed so little at his ease and so 
peculiar that, divining with a woman’s instinct that 
something was wrong, I tried to turn the con- 


FASHIONABLE .ESTHETICS. 


79 


versation into a less dangerous channel by inquir¬ 
ing enthusiastically if he had seen the opera. This 
succeeded temporarily, but at the first pause he 
returned to the old theme. 

“ Don’t you think, Miss Alice,” said he, with 
another wistful, nervous glance that froze me, “ that 
the idea of love as expressed in the closing speech 
of Protesilaus is a most exquisite one?” 

“ Yes, beautiful,” said I, although, as I had merely 
skimmed the poem, I had no notion what lines he 
referred to. 

“ So exalted, so ennobling. Let me repeat them 
to you,” he cried, bending toward me confidingly. 

‘Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend, 

Seeking a higher object; love was given, 

Encouraged, sanctioned chiefly for this end : 

For this the passion to excess was driven 
That self might be annulled. Her bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream opposed to love.’ 

I think, Miss Alice, that ‘Laodamia’ is one of the 
most beautiful poems that ever was written. It ex¬ 
presses exactly my views on such things. Don’t 
you think it very fine? ” 

“ Oh, beautiful,” I replied faintly; for although 
there was nothing especially alarming in his words, 
his voice was overflowing with suppressed tender¬ 
ness, and just as the little birds foretell the coming 


80 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


tornado by the deathlike stillness and the trem¬ 
bling of the leaves, his manner told me that some¬ 
thing awful was going to happen. I began to quiver 
all over. There was a little pause. I stretched 
out my hand convulsively, as the drowning mariner 
clutches at a straw, for a photograph album upon 
the table, and undid the clasp. “ Are you fond of 
photographs, Mr. Hill?” I queried. 

“ Very.” And then he said, “ Miss Alice, I want 
to say «a few words to you. You will understand, 
I am sure, that I do not mean to offend you, but I 
must tell you how much I love you.” 

I had opened the album to show him some pho¬ 
tographs, but as these words fell upon my ear, I felt 
myself beginning to tremble like a leaf. “ It has 
got to come now,” thought I, and with low-bent 
head, and eyes fixed upon the page, I awaited like 
a statue the bursting of the storm. 

“ You can have no conception, Miss Alice, how 
deeply, truly, how tenderly, I love you. Ever since 
I met you that evening at your first ball I have 
thought of nothing else but the possibility of mak¬ 
ing you my wife. Even before that, as a little girl, I 
had watched you with admiration. You seem to me 
to have finer qualities than any woman I have ever 
met, and I passionately adore you. Of course I can¬ 
not expect you to say now that you will marry me. 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 


8l 


All I ask is that you will give me a little hope, — 
that you will allow me to think that you like me a 
little, and that there is a chance, a mere chance, 
that some day in the dim future, when I have 
shown myself worthy of you, you may consent 
to — to — O Miss Alice, I would try so hard to make 
your life a happy one. I would do every thing to 
gratify your slightest wish. It has ever been a 
cherished dream of mine to find some one whom 
I truly loved, and to devote myself to making for 
her a beautiful home. You are that woman, Alice, 
and — and will you not give me a little encourage¬ 
ment, — just one word? ” 

I had covered my face with my hands. I felt so 
awfully that I was afraid I should cry. All that 
I could find words to say was, “ Oh, Mr. Hill, I am 
so sorry.” 

“ I know I am not worthy of you,” he went 
on, “ but I am ambitious. I think I have abilities, 
and I would work, oh, so hard to make you proud 
of me.” 

“ I am so sorry,” moaned I. 

“ Perhaps you think I have been precipitate. 
You may want time, Miss Alice, to consider what 
I have said. Let me go, and give me an answer 
to-morrow, a month hence, or whenever you 
please.” 


82 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


I realized then that I must nerve myself, and 
make some reply to the unfortunate young man. 
I removed my hands from before my eyes, and, 
looking Mr. Hill in the face, spoke as tranquilly as 
I could: — 

“ I was so surprised, Mr. Hill, by what you have 
said that I did not know at first what to do. It 
was so unexpected. I have no feeling for you of 
the kind you mention. I have enjoyed our friend¬ 
ship immensely, but I never supposed for a moment 
that you felt toward me otherwise than as a friend. 
I like you of course very much, but only in the 
way I like a great many other people. I have 
never thought of being married, and — and I am 
very sure I could never feel towards you other¬ 
wise than I do now. Besides, you really know 
comparatively nothing about me, Mr. Hill. I have 
never talked to you about myself. I am very 
sorry to be obliged to cause you pain, but I trust 
you will never speak of such a thing to me again.” 

I paused, and for a moment there was a dreadful 
silence. Poor Mr. Hill sat looking at the carpet 
with an expression on his face of intense sorrow. 
Presently he looked up, and said, “ Miss Alice, is 
there absolutely no hope for me? Don’t you 
think it possible that time might make a differ¬ 
ence? ” 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 83 

“ I do not see how it could. Please try and for¬ 
get me, Mr. Hill.” 

“ Is there any one else whom you like — excuse 
me for asking the question, but I mean is there any 
one — that is, does the fact that you like some one 
better than me prevent your liking me?” 

Thoughts of Mr. Manhattan Blake flitted through 
my mind, but I replied, with perfect sincerity, that 
there was no one for whom I had any feeling as 
yet. “ But I should mudi prefer, Mr. Hill, that 
you dismiss me entirely from your thoughts,” I 
added. 

“ It would be impossible,” said he. 

There was another pause. We both sat looking 
at the carpet. 

“ Yes,” said I softly, after thinking for a few min¬ 
utes. “ I cannot see the slightest chance for you. 
I am very much obliged to you, but I must say 
‘No,’ decisively. I respect you very much, Mr. 
Hill. I shall always feel a great interest in you, 
but — but please forget me.” 

The poor fellow rose and gazed at me with the ex¬ 
pression of a wounded animal. “ O Miss Palmer,” 
said he in a tone that made my heart bleed, “ I can 
never give you up. You are too much identified 
with my every thought for that to be possible. 
For the present all is over, but I shall not despair 
of the future.” 


84 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

“There is no hope,” said I, quietly but firmly. 
I felt that I owed it to him to be decided. 

“ Good-by,” said he, putting out his hand and 
struggling bravely to restrain his emotion. 

“ Good-by, Mr. Hill. I hate to think that our 
pleasant friendship must end. Believe me I am 
very, very sorry for you.” 

“ I suppose that I had better not come to see 
you any more at present,” said he. 

“ Perhaps it would be best that you should not. 
Good-by.” 

He passed out of the room, and I remained stand¬ 
ing where I was, motionless. I could hear him 
putting on his overcoat and arctics in the entry. 
Then followed a rapid stride, a slam of the front 
door, and he was gone. Falling into a chair, I cov¬ 
ered my face with my hands and burst into tears. 

I felt perfectly dreadfully. It had been so 
ghastly, so different from what I had supposed 
such a thing would be. I had always imagined that 
a proposal would be rather amusing, and had 
quite looked forward to one; for although I had 
never actually believed that men would abso¬ 
lutely go down on their knees, I had thought they 
always made a scene and were more or less pe¬ 
culiar. Mr. Hill, to be sure, had had his hair cut, 
and was dressed for the occasion (the remem- 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 85 

brance of which made me shriek with laughter 
ill the midst of my tears), but with that exception 
the whole thing had been fearfully sad and pa¬ 
thetic. I could not help thinking that he had 
never appeared so interesting before during all 
our acquaintance, and it occurred to me that if he 
had always been as nice as that he might have had 
some chance. 

I wanted to tell people, of course, but I knew that 
it was out of the question. I felt that I was bound 
to let Mamma know the bare fact, so I told her, 
when she came home, that Mr. Hill would not visit 
the house any more, but omitted the details of the 
catastrophe. 

“ I am sorry, my dear,” said she; “ he seemed like 
a very nice young man. What did you dislike 
about him? ” 

“ Oh, I did n’t dislike him at all, Mamma, but 
somehow or other he is n’t interesting,” I replied. 

Mamma sighed, but I do not believe that she 
minded my refusing him very much; for although 
he belonged to an excellent family, he had his own 
way to make in the world, to all intents and pur¬ 
poses, and I think it was Mamma’s secret wish that 
I should marry some one whose worldly possessions 
were large, so to speak. I slept very little that 
night, and for the next few days I was very misera- 


86 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


ble. The whole affair was certainly very sad; but 
how could I have helped it, — in what way was I to 
blame? 

One morning shortly after this occurrence, while 
I was still low in my mind, I received a visit from 
Mrs. Gatling Gunn. She informed me that she 
had come with the purpose of carrying into exe¬ 
cution her plans for my reformation, and asked me 
to give her the pleasure of my company at her 
house the following week at a select little musical. 

“ I want you, ma Mrie ,” said she, “ to get well 
acquainted with our set before you go to Newport, 
because we, in vulgar parlance, ‘ run ’ that charm¬ 
ing watering-place.” 

“ I shall be delighted to come, Mrs. Gunn,” 
said I. 

“ It is to be very small,” she continued; “ but, 
entre nous , everybody in town worth knowing will 
be there, — the Hon. Hare Hare, Mrs. Barnum 
Van Amburgh et jille , Coming Gowing, ‘ Poodle * 
Van Ulster, Lina Van Rooster, — what a little 
mouse she is; it can be safely said, nobody will 
break her heart in the way her sister’s was broken, 
— dear Harry Coney, young Gerald Pumystone, 
Mamie Hatche, Pussy Baiker, Lou and Stylington 
Ribblehurst, little Chicky Chalmers, and just a few 
others.” 


FASHIONABLE /ESTHETICS. 


37 


“ Oh, how nice, Mrs. Gunn! ” 

“ A little music, you know, and a quiet chit¬ 
chat. There you have the programme. You will 
come?” 

“ With pleasure.” 

“ A la bonne heure. But what are these stories 
I hear about you, my love? On dit that you 
have mercilessly thrown over the scion of a 
haughty house, broken the heart of a God-fearing 
young man, — in short, declined to become Mrs. 
Murray Hill, Jr. I can see by your face that it is 
true, — what a sly minx it is! You might have 
made me a confidajite, I think.” 

“ What do you mean, Mrs. Gunn?” I protested; 
but I could feel that my cheeks were flaming, and 
I knew, from the smile that played about Mrs. 
Gunn’s lips, that my secret was out. 

“ Quite a feather in your cap, my dear,” she 
continued, without regarding my feeble equivoca¬ 
tion. “ Much better than to have accepted him. 
He is a worthy young man, I dare say, but dull, 
and if he lived to be a hundred would never learn 
how to enter a room properly. He may end by 
being famous if he lasts long enough, but at the 
best it is not a wildly seductive prospect to become 
the gray-haired wife of a famous man. How did 
he take it, dear? Did he call you a flirt? ” 


88 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

“A flirt? No, he never would have said such a 
thing. Why should he have? ” 

“ Oh, they sometimes do. There is no account¬ 
ing for men’s idiosyncrasies. An ardent spirit is 
very apt to consider any thing short of icy cold¬ 
ness encouragement. My second admirer told me, 
I remember, that I was a heartless jilt because I 
looked more or less happy when he sent me 
flowers. Poor Teddy Harrison! He has never 
married, and regards our sex, it is said, as fiends 
incarnate. What would he have had me do, — pout 
and turn my back upon him because he brought 
me a rose? Bah! I have no patience with the 
humors of our so-called masters. So he bore it 
like a lamb, did he? Charming, unless he is of 
the persevering kind. A persevering man is the 
most insidious foe in the pathway of woman. 
Statistics show that continual dropping will wear 
away the stone of six feminine hearts out of seven. 
Three at least, of my intimate friends, dear, mar¬ 
ried their husbands to get rid of them.” 

“ I don’t think that there is any danger in my 
case, Mrs. Gunn,” said I, laughing. 

“ Nous verrons ,” she exclaimed with a sigh. “ By 
the by, Alice,” she added, a moment after, “ Harry 
Coney is decidedly epris of you, — he raved about 
you to me for an hour the other day at the Ribble- 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 


89 


hursts’. He is charming, but the dear creature 
has n’t a shilling to his name, so it would n’t do. 
But for any thing on this side of the altar he 
is simply heavenly. Provided you are discreet 
enough never to name the day, you can make 
yourself the envy of all New York. Good-by, 
dear. Don’t forget next Wednesday.” And, throw¬ 
ing a kiss at me from the tips of her fingers, she 
tripped gracefully out of the room. 

The following Wednesday Mamma and I went 
to the “ musical.” I had an extremely entertain¬ 
ing time. There were about seventy-five people 
there, chiefly of the ultra-fashionable set, with a 
sprinkling of literary and artistic lions. We were 
late, as usual, and as we entered the room, a foreign- 
looking person, who Mrs. Gunn afterwards told me 
was Professor Wiener, a semi-professional, was 
playing the piano. The rest of the company were 
seated in clusters about the exquisite parlors. 
Notwithstanding the music, conversation was going 
on in a minor key, and from among the palm- 
leaves in the dimly lighted conservatory came 
sounds of muffled flirtation. 

Our hostess, attired in black satin cut away in 
front over old gold-colored brocade, rushed for¬ 
ward to greet us. “ So kind of you to come,” she 
whispered; and everybody of course stared at us, 


90 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

as they made room for us to pass, and those who 
wore eye-glasses gave us the benefit of them. I 
sat down close to Mamma, in a beautiful uphol¬ 
stered chair of a color of which I was ignorant of 
the name. At my side stood a little low plush- 
covered table, resting on three legs, uniting in a 
wooden sphere at the base, upon which were col¬ 
lected a multitude of china creatures, principally 
dogs, of all hues and sizes. On a divan beyond, 
lovely Mrs. Stylington Ribblehurst, in a delicate 
rose-tinted skeleton of a dress, sat chatting confi¬ 
dentially with Coming Gowing, the bachelor par 
excellence of society, who, rumor says, never talks 
to any one whose income is under twenty-five 
thousand a year. 

“ Do you know,” I overheard him whisper to 
the fair charmer, “ that she positively starves her 
servants? On dit that she obliges them to divide 
with her the gratuities that visitors at her house 
give them.” 

“ Really? You don’t mean so,” was the delighted 
response, the remainder of which was drowned in 
the fortissimo of Professor Wiener. 

Behind me, in a nook dimly illumined from a 
bracket above by a moderatenr lamp in the form 
of a polar bear rampant, the rays of which were 
filtered through a dark carnation-paper shade, 


FASHIONABLE .ESTHETICS. 


91 


Mr. “Poodle” Van Ulster, so nicknamed because 
of the silkiness of his hair and whiskers, and a 
certain namby-pamby way he has of talking, 
was discussing art with Mrs. Barnum Van Am- 
burgh. Mr. Van Ulster is considered one of the 
nicest young married men in New York, and is 
extremely aesthetic. 

They were examining a small painting by Corot, 
that Mrs. Gunn had recently purchased for a large 
sum; and as I knew them both, I pushed back my 
chair slightly, so as to be able to join the conver¬ 
sation. 

“ An exquisite bit, — a perfect gem,” said “ Poo¬ 
dle,” holding it out at arm’s-length with a seraphic 
look in his eyes. “ The tenderness of those grays 
is tantalizing. Oh, excellent,—excellent. There 
is nothing, after all, equal to Corot at his best.” 

“ Nothing,” echoed Mrs. Van Amburgh, whose 
knowledge of art was, I had reason to believe, 
limited. 

“ Observe,” continued the male critic, with head 
on one side and squinting musingly at the canvas, 
“ the splendor of motion and delightful vigor of 
the whole.” 

“ Such luxury of color, too,” ventured Mrs. Van 
Amburgh. 

“Yes,” continued he; “and the wealth of im- 


92 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

agery displayed is something overpowering. In 
the mere technique there may perhaps be flaws; 
there is a dreamy sketchiness about the outlines, 
which, while it is entirely intelligible to me, and 
palsies with despair one’s hopes of ever rivalling 
such genius, might possibly suggest to the igno¬ 
rant or even to the hypercritical student of modern 
art that the signification — no, not the signification 
precisely — that the — or rather that it does not 
convey — that, in a word, it is not exactly clear 
that it was meant to be what it is.” 

“ I agree with you entirely, Mr. Van Ulster; that 
very same idea occurred to me,” said Mrs. Van 
Amburgh effusively. 

“ I am afraid that I do not make my meaning 
wholly intelligible; it is extremely difficult not to 
use terms strictly technical,” said he. 

“Oh, perfectly, perfectly, — I understand ex¬ 
actly,” protested Mrs. Van. “ A gem, Alice, 
isn’t it?” she continued, turning to me. 

“ Yes, perfectly lovely, Mrs. Van Amburgh,” said 
I hypocritically; for, to tell the truth, I could n’t 
make out what the picture was about. To salve 
my conscience, however, I added, “What is that 
in the background which looks something like a 
gaudy smutch ? ” 

I saw a sad smile flit across Mr. Van Ulster’s 


FASHIONABLE AESTHETICS. 


93 


features as he drawled in reply, “That is a tree, 
Miss Palmer.” 

“But where are the leaves, Mr. Van Ulster?” 
said I, determined not to be put down in this 
way. 

“ Miss Palmer,” said he almost contemptuously, 
“ it is one of the requisites of the modern school 
of painting that the leaves of a tree should be 
buried in the tout ensemble . If now you were to 
stand at the farther end of the room and gaze at 
this charming subject, you would discern the foli¬ 
age in question in much the same way as one sees 
trees in a distant landscape. To have inserted 
leaves or to have made on the canvas any thing 
beyond that which you have styled a smutch 
would have been, so to speak, artistic tautology, — 
pictorial pleonasm.” 

“ Oh yes, I see, Mr. Van Ulster. The modern 
school of painting evidently has in view the pos¬ 
sibilities of our presently being able to see pictures 
by telephone. How charming ! ” 

Mr. Van Ulster looked at me as if he thought 
I must be a little daft, and, the music having just 
then ceased, he asked Mrs. Van Amburgh to 
stroll through the rooms with him to examine the 
objets de vertu. 

As they were walking away I found myself face 


94 THE confessions of a frivolous girl. 

to face with an insignificant, rather common-look¬ 
ing little creature, with bleary gray eyes, and 
reddish brown whiskers and mustache, whom I 
recognized as the Hon. Hare Hare, the Englishman 
whom Mrs. Gunn had spoken of at our last inter¬ 
view. He had been introduced to me on a pre¬ 
vious occasion at this same house. He had not 
prepossessed me then, I must say, in his favor, for 
many of his remarks were very rude, and he 
showed plainly by his manner that he considered 
himself under no obligation to behave as he would • 
have done presumably at home. It was a kettle¬ 
drum, I remember, and all the other men wore 
black frock-coats, but the Hon. Hare Hare had 
appeared in a rough gray suit and untidy cravat. 
To-night, however, he was suitably apparelled, and 
excepting that ease of manner evidently formed 
no part of his charms, he revealed to the ordinary 
eye no other peculiarity. I have heard a great 
many people say that Englishmen have been 
made so much of in our society that they con¬ 
sider it rather clever to return courtesy with rude¬ 
ness. 

He had been all the rage for the past two 
months. Mrs. Gunn and Mrs. Ribblehurst had 
taken him up at Newport the preceding summer, 
and he had been feted, lionized, and worshipped to 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 


95 


his heart’s content. So far as I could learn, none 
of the girls liked him, nor thought him agreeable: 
but as it was decidedly the “ thing ” to have him 
around, he was invited everywhere. He was first 
cousin to the Earl of Hammerhead, a nobleman 
who, it is said, lost a great deal of money by dab¬ 
bling in American securities, — I believe in the 
Joanna mine or some such thing (it may not have 
been Joanna, but I know that it was a girl’s name). 
The Hon. Hare Hare had come out to this country 
to investigate the matter as well as amuse himself; 
and as, owing to the health of the heir apparent, 
the chances were more than even in favor of his 
becoming some day Earl of Hammerhead him¬ 
self, some of the girls’ mothers (notably Mamie 
Hatche’s) were anxious to have their daughters 
return with him to England as prospective Coun¬ 
tess of Hammerhead. “ I would not touch him 
with the tongs,” had been Mamma’s remark when 
I told her of Mrs. Hatche’s manoeuvres. But I 
must own I felt more or less satisfaction at seeing 
him now standing before me. 

“How d’you do, Miss Palmer? Awfully jolly, 
isn’t it? What’s in that place over there?” ex¬ 
claimed he, pointing to the conservatory at the 
end of the suite of rooms. He put out his arm, as 
if to signify that I was to investigate the mystery 


9 6 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

with him; and, rather amused than otherwise, I 
responded to his dumb show, and suffered myself 
to be dragged through the intervening parlors. 

“ What a beastly bore ! I ’d smash ’em if I had 
’em,” he remarked sympathetically, when, in en¬ 
deavoring to thread my way through the maze of 
knick-knacks that adorned Mrs. Gunn’s “ holy of 
holies” (which was the further room of the two), 
I caught my foot against an unexpected seal-skin 
footstool, and, losing my balance, upset a love of a 
little table shaped like a mushroom. 

The conservatory, in which there were a few 
foreign-looking trees and plants, was hurtg with 
Chinese lanterns that were very effective. In the 
middle was a pretty little fountain representing 
Danae and the shower of gold. Comfortable, odd¬ 
shaped seats were scattered about in the nooks 
and corners. As we entered, several couples were 
apparently having desperate flirtations. I iden¬ 
tified Pussy Baiker and Mr. Gerald Pumystone, 
Lina Van Rooster and Mr. Chicky Chalmers, and 
a voice from underneath an india-rubber tree in a 
dim recess, which it was easy to recognize as 
Peepy Marshmellow’s, called out, “ Come over 
here, Alice; there’s lots of room.” 

Obeying the summons, I found Peepy sunk in 
the depths of a huge arm-chair, and Mr. Harry 


FASHIONABLE /ESTHETICS. 


97 


Coney on an ottoman at her feet. The former 
seemed to be entirely regardless of the fact that 
her position was likely to be extremely detrimental 
to the skirt of the striking black tulle trimmed 
with sunflowers in which she was arrayed (she was 
going to a ball at Mrs. Wellman Heidseck’s later 
in the evening), and a bit of a leaf which she had 
pulled off the rubber-tree protruded from between 
her cherry lips. 

“ Well, Alice, my love, how long you have been 
in finding your way to our hermitage! ” she ex¬ 
claimed. “ How d’ y’ do, Mr. Hare?” 

“ And how is the lovely Miss Marshmellow this 
evening?” replied the latter, bowing with mock 
reverence to this easy-going beauty. 

“ Ta, awfully ta. That is what your country¬ 
women would say under similar circumstances, 
is n’t it? Why have n’t you been to see me, Hon,, 
Hare Hare? I waited at home all yesterday after¬ 
noon, expecting that you would come.” 

“ And I did n’t. What a joke ! ” exclaimed the 
fascinating foreigner with a laugh. 

“You shan’t make fun of me; I ’ll never speak 
to you again, you nasty thing. That’s a real 
English expression now, is n’t it, and perfectly 
good form, too,” said Peepy. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the Hon. Hare Hare, and he 
7 


98 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

added, “This is a curious outfit, isn’t it? We 
should call it at home a rum go.” 

“ Perhaps you are not aware that it is my sister 
who is giving this ‘ outfit,’ or ‘ go,’ whichever you 
prefer to call it,” said she. 

“ Oh, really now, is that so ? How embarrassing ! 
But a fellow can’t for the life of him keep your 
relationships in his head in this country,” replied 
Mr. Hare, with the most amazing brass I had ever 
witnessed. 

“How agonizingly repulsive ! ” cried Peepy, who, 
though bound to be offended, was evidently very 
much amused. “ Is that the way all Englishmen 
talk? ” 

Mr. Hare’s reply was cut short by the appear¬ 
ance of a servant at the door of the conservatory 
with the announcement that supper was ready. 

“I’m frantically glad,” cried Peepy, clapping 
her hands together. “ I feel quite starved. Let’s 
have supper on this table,” pointing, as she spoke, 
to an ormolu table close at hand. During the 
foregoing dialogue Mr. Coney and I had been 
amused but silent spectators, but the former now 
rose and moved the table so that our quartette 
could sit around it. 

“ Now mind and bring me something nice, Hon. 
H are Hare,” continued Peepy, “ and don’t forget 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 


99 


a glass of champagne. Be sure and put lots of 
seltzer in it. The last time you brought me cham¬ 
pagne it was awfully strong, and my sister gave 
me a dreadful scolding because I drank it.” 

By the time that Mr. Coney and Mr. Hare re¬ 
turned with our supper, we were holding quite a 
levee. Man after man, attracted at first doubtless 
by a spirit of curiosity, had dropped into the con¬ 
servatory, and, discovering our retreat beside the 
rubber-tree, remained to chat. Peepy was evi¬ 
dently in her element, and simply irrepressible. 
Disgusted as I was at the tenor of her conversa¬ 
tion, I could not but admire the executive ability 
she revealed in fixing the attention of six men all 
at once, and coming off victorious in every attempt 
at badinage. Our partners brought back with 
them a bottle of champagne and one of seltzer, 
which they placed upon our table. 

“ You don’t expect I am going to drink all that, 
do you, Hon. Hare Hare?” cried Peepy. 

“ I knew, Miss Marshmellow, that if I brought 
you merely one glass I should be sent back again 
in five minutes,” replied the audacious English¬ 
man. 

“ How hideously disagreeable ! ” cried she. “ I 
have half a mind to drink the whole of it in order 
to make you go back for more, you lazy thing! ” 


100 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


All the men haw-hawed, and Peepy proceeded 
to sip a glass of the mixture which Mr. Coney had 
prepared for her. I was annoyed to see that he 
deliberately filled her glass with champagne, and 
poured in only a few drops of the Apollinaris 
water. I could not help being struck with the 
free-and-easy manner that the men who stood 
around us began to adopt towards her. What 
they said was intended presumably for banter, but 
absence of respect was noticeable in their every 
word and gesture. Realizing that matters were 
growing a little too rapid for my taste, I asked 
Mr. Coney, who had seated himself beside me, to 
take me into the other room. 

“Where are you going, Alice?” exclaimed 
Peepy, as I rose from my seat. 

“ Merely into the other room. It is very warm 
here,” said I, a trifle haughtily. 

A slight blush suffused her face. She evidently 
appreciated that I did not approve of her behav¬ 
ior. “Do I shock you dreadfully, dear?” she 
cried with a little laugh. “Well, I will go too, and 
be awfully proper for the rest of the evening. It 
must be nearly time for Mrs. Wellman Heidseck’s. 
Which of you,” turning gayly to the group of men 
around her, “will take me into the other room?” 

A dozen arms were proffered immediately, and, 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 


IOI 


selecting that of Mr. Chicky Chalmers, she followed 
me out of the conservatory. 

We found the appearance of the parlors very 
much altered. Earlier in the evening they had 
been comfortably crowded with people listening to 
Professor Wiener and the ballad-singer, Mrs. Cov¬ 
entry (n£e Chambers, my old music-teacher), who 
had followed the Professor. But now the super¬ 
fluous men were audibly in the supper-room, and 
the ladies were scattered about in nooks and cor¬ 
ners, with men who admired them particularly, all 
over the house, which had been thrown open prac¬ 
tically from attic to cellar. Re-entering the room 
where I had passed the first part of the evening, I 
noticed that Coming Gowing and Mrs. Stylington 
Ribblehurst were still sitting on the same divan 
absorbed in apparently confidential conversation. 
Perhaps it is only fair to state that just as we were 
leaving the conservatory I had noticed Mr. Ribble¬ 
hurst enter it with Mrs. Gunn on his arm. 

“ Let us sit down here,” said Mr. Coney, paus¬ 
ing in our sauntering before a little retreat behind 
some heavy drapery curtains in the “ holy of ho¬ 
lies.” I accepted the situation, and remained there 
undisturbed, listening to his dulcet tones, until fer¬ 
reted out by Mamma almost an hour later. I shall 
never forget the excitement, the intensity, of that 


102 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


iite-a-tete . I had always thought Harry Coney 
fascinating, but on this night it seemed to me as 
if his soul was in his mouth, and that every word 
as it came forth from his lips was angel-coined. 
It was not in what he said but in his manner of 
saying it that his peculiar charm lay. He did not 
commit himself in express terms to the extent that 
some men do, but I felt that he intended by his 
every gesture to convey the impression that he 
adored me and worshipped the ground I trod 
upon. At the same time I was conscious to a 
certain extent that the influence he had over me 
was more or less akin to the spell the cat casts 
over the innocent bird before she devours it. I 
knew instinctively that I ought not to like him, 
and yet I knew that I did like him very much in 
spite of myself. Even as he talked I compared 
him in my mind with Mr. Manhattan Blake, and 
the balance seemed to tremble in favor of “ dear 
Harry,” as Mrs. Gunn called him. I asked him 
several questions about himself, but the subject 
interested him but little. He seemed to prefer to 
talk about me. As we were leaving our retreat, 
I inquired of him why he had so wickedly filled 
Peepy’s glass with champagne. He looked at me 
for a moment without replying, and I thought I 
saw a shadow of a smile lurking under his mus- 


FASHIONABLE ESTHETICS. 


103 


tache. Then, with a look of apparent contrition in 
his dark eyes, he pressed my hand a little, and said 
earnestly, “ It was wrong of me, Miss Palmer. 
Believe me, I am very sorry.” 

As I came up on his arm to say good-night to 
Mrs. Gunn, she whispered in my ear, “I see, Alice, 
that you are following my advice. But be careful, 
dear; he is no chicken.” 

“ I am afraid, though, that I am,” said I. “ Good¬ 
night, Mrs. Gunn.” 



III. 

MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 

^J^HE debilitating weather incident to the ap¬ 
proach of spring inclined my thoughts to rest 
and pensive retrospect. All dissipation was over 
for the present, and as I felt, physically speak¬ 
ing, limp, my principal occupation during the six 
weeks that preceded our moving to Newport was 
to lie upon the sofa and analyze myself, or saunter 
in the sunshine of Fifth Avenue with Grace Irving. 
I rather wanted to take a little trip to Florida, but 
Mamma decided that absolute repose was the best 
thing for me. 

People who were fond of me but had not much 
tact, and girls who disapproved of me, declared 
I looked pale and worn-out. Of course I stoutly 
asserted that I was perfectly well. But it was 
not very agreeable to have such a thing said to 
one, and I used to examine my cheek-bones and 



MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


105 


other salient features every morning in my mirror 
with considerable solicitude. I arrived, however, 
finally at the conclusion that, on the whole, my face 
was more interesting-looking now that its contour 
lacked a little of its habitual plumpness. I should, 
at any rate, no longer be exposed to that invidious 
compliment, “ a fine healthy girl.” 

Looking back on my “ first winter,” I could say, 
without a shadow of presumption, that I had been 
a success. I had won the good opinion of both 
the conservative and radical portions of society. I 
had been just fast enough (to quote the ill-natured 
remark of a girl who does not like me much) to 
escape disagreeable strictures on the score of either 
prudery or rapidity. I had avoided extremes, and 
my admirers embraced every element of the social 
world. Suddenly translated from a girl into a 
woman, I had learned, as has been already hinted, 
to appreciate the omnipotence of man. I felt my 
brain still giddy from the accession of a thousand 
new ideas: all my views of life had been revolu¬ 
tionized, the pet visions and dreams of childhood 
had burst like bubbles, my long-cherished ideals 
had come down two or three pegs; but I had had 
a perfectly gorgeous time. 

It is a popular theory that a covert tenderness 
for some one of the opposite sex is the guiding 


10 6 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


impulse of every young girl’s life. This is very 
likely the case in provincial communities, or 
among girls who fail to excite enthusiasm in soci¬ 
ety. But I know that so far as I myself or any of 
the more prominent debutantes were concerned, our 
one absorbing passion was love of admiration. 

A perfectly gorgeous time consisted in getting, 
for instance, nine bouquets in the German when 
another girl got but three. Not, as cynical people 
will say, because it gave me satisfaction that the 
other girl received so few, but because of the 
bare fact that I got more than she did; thereby 
(to use a bit of slang) getting points on her for 
the time being. So far from rejoicing at her pov¬ 
erty, the more flowers another girl got, the more 
genuine pleasure I had, provided always there 
was a good wide margin in my favor between us. 
On the other hand, a ghastly time was synony¬ 
mous with neglect in the presence of our contem¬ 
poraries ; and the circumstance that some one for 
whom I felt a latent partiality tried, by his single 
devotion to me all the evening, to atone for the 
indifference of others, rather increased the smart 
than otherwise; for while more or less flattered by 
the ardor of my slave, I could not but feel annoyed 
that he, of all others, should have been a witness 
of my humiliation. This may sound like sophis- 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 107 

try; but the idea I wish to convey is that we 
girls craved during our first winter the tempered 
admiration of the many rather than the passion¬ 
ate fervor of the few. We felt it politic and 
necessary, for ambition’s sake, to disregard per¬ 
sonal inclinations, and sometimes sacrifice, for the 
transient worship of numbers, tite-a-tHes in cor¬ 
ners with those whom we suspected of enter¬ 
taining serious intentions. I have heard it stated 
that men invariably go to parties to see some par¬ 
ticular girl, but I can safely say that up to this 
period I had not been dependent for my enjoyment 
on the presence of any one in especial. Of course I 
always noticed and felt a certain thrill when persons 
like Harry Coney or Manhattan Blake entered the 
room, but I often enjoyed myself fully as much on 
the evenings that they happened to be absent. 

But now that the season was over, and I felt 
able to tone down the rapid gait of the past three 
months into a more dignified pace, I began, like a 
prudent general after a brilliant victory, to analyze 
carefully the situation. The Murray Hill tragedy 
had opened my eyes to the fact that it was per¬ 
fectly possible for young men to fall in love with 
me, a reality which I had hitherto regarded as chi¬ 
merical ; and I was now prompted by certain in¬ 
definable sensations within me, which I could not 


108 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


fully explain, to revolve, in the solitude of my 
chamber, whether it was possible that I could ever 
fall in love with any man. 

From casual remarks, and from what Grace Irv¬ 
ing had confided to me that other girls had told 
her, I had gathered that my name was prominently 
mentioned in connection with four young men in 
society. Current Rumor, when most rampantly 
asserting herself, had it that I had played fast and 
loose with Mr. Hill, had tried unsuccessfully to hook 
Mr. Gerald Pumystone, was pining with love for 
Manhattan Blake, and that Harry Coney, under 
the guise of a cavaliere servente , was making a dead 
set for my fortune. All that was true in this sen¬ 
sational tirade was that I had mildly but firmly 
refused an unexpected offer of marriage from Mr. 
Hill, and that the three other young men were in 
the habit of speaking to me more frequently than 
the rest of my male acquaintance. Beyond this 
and beyond the fact that I liked ever so much to 
have them all four come and see me separately as 
often as they would, and that occasionally I was con¬ 
scious of little thrills of excitement going through 
me when I talked with Mr. Blake or Mr. Coney, I 
had really never taken the trouble to investigate 
what was the exact nature of my feelings towards 
them. 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


109 


But now, while during the early days of spring 
I ruminated upon the sofa, reposing against its 
cushions the small of my back, this quartette used 
frequently to rise before me like ghosts, sad and 
woe-begone, and murmur plaintively, “ Which of us, 
gentle maiden, — which of us ? ” My mind, it is true, 
was running on apparitions at the time, for a num¬ 
ber of us girls were spending our spare hours in 
reading “ Macbeth ” and “ Hamlet ” under the super¬ 
vision of a deserving Miss Driggs. Sometimes for 
amusement’s sake, I would imagine myself during 
the spectral interviews the wife of each of the four in 
turn, and a still small voice would whisper in my ear, 
“ Remember, Alice, that the Pumystones antedate 
Noah, and that for the future you would never have 
to inquire the price of things. Gerald is a very nice 
young man. His clothes fit him to perfection. 
You would not be obliged to see very much of 
him. He looks remarkably well in public, and you 
could always feel sure of his doing the correct thing 
upon a social emergency. He owns a dog-cart 
and a drag, and would undoubtedly allow you a 
phaeton and ponies, rat size. You could skip over 
to Europe whenever you wished. Mamma would 
be pleased as Punch. You could ‘run’ society, 
and life would be as soft as sealskin.” 

“ True,” would be my mournful reply, “ but he 


IIO THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


does n’t amount to a row of pins.” Whereupon 
suitor number one would vanish from the scene, 
and perhaps the face of Murray Hill, wearing the 
wounded-animal expression it wore upon that 
eventful evening, would rise, Banquo-like, before 
-me. Poor Mr. Hill! We had met several times 
since our contretemps , and although a little sad and 
reserved, his demeanor had been singularly amia¬ 
ble and forgiving. I had been of course wild with 
excitement to see how he would act at our first in¬ 
terview, and I scarcely knew whether I was pleased 
or not when he came up and said, just as usual, 
“ Good evening, Miss Palmer.” And now, thought 
I, if I were to relent and marry him, what a nice, 
sensible match everybody would consider it! The 
Murray Hills are among the landmarks of society, 
and, what is more, I should be the wife of an amia¬ 
ble, God-fearing man. He would be sure to do 
everything possible to secure my happiness and 
make my home ideal. I could go straight to 
heaven without change of cars. “ But reflect upon 
the other side of the picture,” whispered my crit¬ 
ical genius. “ The Murray Hills are comfortably 
off, nothing more. To live with the old people 
would be misery, so you would probably take a 
pretty little house on a side street, which your own 
Papa would give you as a wedding-present, and a 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


Ill 


young physician’s income would be your future 
financial basis. That is, you would settle down. 
Everybody in society would call on you once, and 
then you would be shelved. In other words, peo¬ 
ple would henceforth merely invite you to general 
jams, and send you cards when their children were 
married. You would become a discreet, demure, 
motherly sort of person. Your evenings would 
be spent in darning stockings or playing solitaire 
in a little low chair at your husband’s feet. He 
would be toiling over musty volumes by the light 
of a student-lamp, with a green-paper shade over 
his eyes. Once in a while he would look up from 
his work to bestow a smile or a word upon you, 
which you would learn to look forward to as a pet 
animal does to a lump of sugar. Occasionally, 
if you had been particularly good, he would 
take you to the play, or read aloud to you, as a 
treat, the last biography, or his favorite bits of 
Shakspeare.” 

“ Don’t, don’t! ” I would invariably cry at this 
juncture, with my hands over my eyes. “ Take him 
away, take him away! I should die in a week.” 

So, in like manner, the features of the fascinating 
Harry Coney would succeed Murray Hill’s, and 
I would imagine myself married to the charming 
creature, and living at Papa’s expense in some 


112 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


artistic little dove-cot. It was a pleasant fancy, 
and I used to linger over it. But ever and anon 
a presentiment would come over me that I, like 
the guileless maiden who wedded the captivating 
Blue-beard, would some day be forced to seek 
the housetop and cry aloud for Sister Anna, if I 
chose this man for my mate. Frivolous as I was, 
I really think, it was inherent poise of character 
that prevented me from seriously fancying Mr. 
Coney. All that was bad in me he pleased, and I 
realized that an evening with him had very much 
the same effect upon me as a highly sensational 
melodrama. Intercourse with him was dissipation, 
and in seeking to drive his image from my thoughts, 
I imagine that I underwent the sensations that ani¬ 
mate the convert to temperance who puts from 
him the alluring cup of destruction. 

It may perhaps also have been the unconscious 
influence of my fourth admirer that prevented me 
from becoming too fond of “dear Harry.” To be 
perfectly frank, I suppose that at this time, away 
down in the depths of my heart, I harbored for Mr. 
Blake a little bit of that feeling which it is the am¬ 
bition of man to inspire in our sex. I felt myself 
blushing when the other girls teased me about 
him. When people asked me who talked to me 
at a party, I was apt to detect myself enumerating 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 113 

him last in the category, as if desirous that he 
should pass unnoticed. Sometimes, without con¬ 
sciously meaning to do so, I found myself strolling 
on Fifth Avenue at the time that he habitually came 
up town. It was he who had sent me my first 
bouquet. It was with him I had first discussed 
problems of life, and had my earliest “ interesting 
conversation.” Struggle as I would, I could not 
rid myself of the gentle pressure of this chain. 
That I did not care for him much I was certain, 
but with chagrin I felt that to myself I must ac¬ 
knowledge that if the secrets of my bosom should 
be laid bare, among them would be discovered a 
sneaking affection for Mr. Manhattan Blake. Love 
of admiration, it is true, had absorbed my being, 
but through the marble of my heart this slender 
vein of romance had stolen its golden way. 

It was a most humiliating discovery, and as Mr. 
Blake began to come to see me even more fre¬ 
quently than during the gay season, it seemed as 
if fate had conspired against me. I was angry 
with myself for liking to have him come and 
looking forward to his visits. It was dreadful to 
be conscious that my fancy was no longer free, and 
that my maiden pride tacitly bowed down to him 
as a positive possibility. Womanlike, I had always 
regarded the young unmarried men of my acquaint- 
8 


I 14 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

ance in the light of possibilities, but negative pos¬ 
sibilities. Mr. Blake had become something more 
than that. I felt sure that if he should chance 
to ask me, some soft spring afternoon, during a tete- 
a-teie in the parlor, or while strolling in the Park, 
“ Do you love me, Alice?” my answer would be, 
“ No; ” but I could not feel equally certain that it 
would not be a timid No, a faltering No, a No very 
different from the one I gave poor Mr. Hill. 

To seek to explain why a person of one sex in 
this world falls in love with, or, to use a less conven¬ 
tional but less compromising expression, is smashed 
upon a particular individual belonging to the other, 
is generally a hopeless task, and I am sure that I 
cannot analyze the reason of my preference for Mr. 
Blake. I was aware that many of the girls laughed at 
him, and called him peculiar and poky; that others 
considered him too unconventional; and that one 
girl had nicknamed him “ the hearse,” on account 
of his habitual pensive melancholy. But to me all 
these animadversions seemed unjust. He was dif¬ 
ferent from other men, to be sure. To begin with, 
he had low spirits, and I imagine that the things he 
ate did not agree with him very well; but once 
start him on books or any subject in which he was 
interested, and he often became simply intense. 
Perhaps the expression “weird,” applied to him 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 11 5 

by Grace Irving, described him more accurately 
than any other. 

He had a delicious way of talking about himself 
under the guise of an imaginary person, thereby 
confiding to you all his secret feelings without 
appearing to do so; you knowing all the while 
that the man of straw was Manhattan Blake, and 
that he knew that you knew that such was the 
case. He would often sit with me for a whole 
afternoon thus discussing and analyzing this second 
self. Sometimes, when during these quasi seances 
his voice sank very low, and he became morbid 
and dejected-looking, the process would remind 
me of the witches of long ago who used to make 
wax figures of their enemies and torture them with 
pins over a slow fire. 

It was noticeable, however, that the characteris¬ 
tics of this other self of his were continually chang¬ 
ing, and were rarely consistent for more than a week 
at a time. This puzzled me until I discovered that 
the views of Mr. Blake’s double were largely depend¬ 
ent upon what Mr. Blake happened to be reading 
at the time. I ventured once to tax him with this 
seeming blemish, but his reply reassured me. He 
said that the opinions of every thinking man were 
continually undergoing revolution, and that “ con¬ 
sistency is the vice of fools.” 


II 6 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


Among other things, he had a fascinating habit 
of summing up life in some epigram usually bor¬ 
rowed from the poets. For some time after hav¬ 
ing become familiar with the Rubaiyat of Omar 
Khayyam, a charming translation from the Per¬ 
sian, I remember that he used on every available 
opportunity to croon in my ears, as expressive of 
his theory of existence, the lines: — 

“ Come fill the cup, and in the fire of spring 
Your winter garment of repentance fling. 

The bird of time has but a little way 
To flutter, —and the bird is on the wing. 

“ Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears 
To-day of past regrets and future fears : 

To-morrow ! — why, to-morrow I may be 
Myself with yesterday’s seven thousand years. 

“ Perplext no more with human or divine, 

To-morrow’s tangle to the winds resign, 

And lose your fingers in the tresses of 
The cypress-slender minister of wine. 

“ Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit 
Of this and that, endeavor and dispute. 

Better be jocund with the fruitful grape 
Than sadden after none, or bitter, fruit.” 

When the lovely “ Epic of Hades ” came out, 
Mr. Blake took a great fancy to the poem “ Mar- 
syas,” which portrays the trials of a poor creature 
who was flayed alive in ancient times for trying 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 117 

to rival Apollo in playing on the flute. The un¬ 
lucky wretch is represented, in this modern in¬ 
terpretation of his story, as consoling himself with 
the reflection 

“ How far high failure overleaps the bound 
Of low successes ; ” 

that it was better to be a second-class performer 
than none at all, and thanking his stars that he 
was able to appreciate classical music when he 
heard it. I may have jumbled things up a little, 
for I am not a very good hand at analyzing poetry; 
but I can still picture to myself that spring after¬ 
noon in the parlor, and Mr. Blake, with his thin pale 
face and large mysterious eyes, bending towards me 
after reading the poem aloud, and exclaiming, “ How 
exquisite, Miss Palmer, is it not? I can imagine so 
many people ” (meaning himself) “just like Mar- 
syas, — so many people in the world who have 
everything but the power of expression, and who, 
to quote the words of another poet, ‘ die with all 
their music in them,’ so *to speak. Only think, 
though, what an advantage these artists, mediocre as 
they are, have over people who have no appreciation 
of art in any form, who are impervious to ebulli¬ 
tions of sentiment or pathos, whose aspirations never 
soar beyond the real and the tangible. Methinks,” 


118 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


he added, fixing his rapt gaze on the ceiling, “ I 
can hear many a man whom cruel critics have 
crucified, consoling himself with the beautiful words 
of the suffering satyr, which seem to me to em¬ 
body much of the worth of life, — 

‘ Not only those 

Who hold clear echoes of the voice divine 
Are honorable, — they are blest, indeed, 

Whate’er the world has held, — but those who hear 
Some fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf, 

And see the white gods’ garments on the hills, 

Which the crowd sees not, though they may not find 
Fit music for their visions ; they are blest, 

Not pitiable. 

.... More it is than ease, 

Palace and pomp, honors and luxuries, 

To have seen white presences upon the hills, 

To have heard the voices of the eternal gods.’ ” 

But even in Mr. Blake’s happiest moods there 
was always a tinge of melancholy, as if there were 
some harrowing mystery enshrouding his life. I 
think that he almost regarded himself in the 
light of a martyr. He would often say to me, 
when wishing to be confidential, “ It might be so 
different, if things were only different.” I never 
could quite make out what he meant by these 
words except that under his present circumstances 
he lived and strove merely from a sense of duty, 
not because existence was a pleasure to him. For 
the law he did not care much, but he was tremen- 



MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


119 

dously absorbed in poetry, music, and art, in all of 
which he had essayed his abilities in an amateurish 
way, and he often hinted that he intended some time 
to produce something worth living for. Of his 
power to do so he apparently had no doubts, but the 
awful cui bono, as he himself termed it, stared him 
in the face and enervated his will. Some of the 
girls declared that the cui bono was only an excuse 
for laziness, which, needless to say, appeared to me 
an unkind stricture. 

But before I could make up my mind what I 
really did think about all these things, the time 
came for us to move to Newport, and the bustle 
of change gave me little chance for further self- 
analysis. Our cottage, which Papa had bought 
some five years before of Mr. Meacham Williams 
when he failed, is situated on the Cliff side, and 
looks straight out to sea. There is a current im¬ 
pression that Newport is only attractive during the 
“ season,” which does not begin until the middle 
of July; but to me the pleasantest time is in June, 
before the advent of the randan and the consequent 
whirl of gayety. Of course it is awfully quiet in 
one sense of the word, but there is a charm about 
little lawn-tennis parties and peaceful sybaritic 
“ teas ” which only the initiated can appreciate. 

In the morning, as soon as breakfast was over, 


120 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


I used generally to take the pony phaeton and 
call for Grace Irving, who lived about five minutes’ 
drive from us on Bellevue Avenue. Looking fresh 
as daisies in our cool cambrics and picturesque 
shade-hats, we would take a spin into town, and 
shop a little or chat with the other girls, while 
Thomas the groom took charge of Billy the pony. 
Or else, if the spirit moved us, we went over to 
the Van Amburghs’ or Stillman Eastons’ for a 
game of tennis. Both these houses were regular 
rendezvous for lawn-tennis. You were pretty sure 
to find eight or ten people there glad to play. I 
perfectly idolized the game. I had practised a 
great deal the summer before, so, as Harry Coney 
remarked once, when I beat him a “ love set,” I 
was no slouch of a player. He said that he tried 
his best, but I had my doubts. 

Everybody wore white flannel suits and canvas 
shoes with colored lacings, and some of the girls 
used to perch little round gaudy caps on the tops 
of their heads. It was proposed to have a tennis 
tournament later on in the summer, and we were all 
anxious to improve before that time. I had Papa 
pick me out the nicest racket that he could find 
in New York and send it on to me. 

Then there was the beach. Bathing was rather 
3 nuisance because of your hair; but if there was 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


121 


nothing else to do we generally went. After 
my bath I was apt to do a little light reading 
while my hair was drying. In the afternoon 
Mamma and I drove on the Avenue in the lan¬ 
dau, or Papa or some one else took me out in a 
dog-cart. Even so early in the season it was 
dreadfully hard to remember, in meeting people, 
whether you had passed them before and there¬ 
fore ought not to bow again, or whether you were 
meeting them for the first time and ought not to 
pass without bowing. Very often one or two 
people would drop in to tea in the evening, or I 
would be asked to an informal gathering of the 
same sort somewhere else. They were harmless 
affairs, those teas, — only a little thin-spread bread- 
and-butter and a lazy tete-a-tite on the piazza after¬ 
wards. If I remained at home and nobody hap¬ 
pened in, I would loll in the dear old hammock, 
wondering at the stars and killing mosquitoes until 
the sea-breeze fanned me into a bed-like frame of 
mind. It was a lotus-like, perhaps humdrum sort 
of existence; but we clung to it while it lasted, 
for already we could hear in the near distance the 
roar of the monster wave of fashionable gayety, 
that a few weeks hence would burst upon us, and 
bear us with resistless force on its foaming, seeth¬ 
ing crest far into the autumn. 


122 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


And almost before we knew it, it was upon us, 
and Newport became in a single day, as it were, 
a sort of mixture of babel and fairy-land. The 
little morning spin into town, the game of tennis, 
the bath, the drive upon the Avenue, the slothful 
tea, — their outward forms were with us still, but the 
spirit that prompted them had undergone muta¬ 
tion. Where all before was repose and supineness, 
repose either by day or night was now no longer 
possible. For who could rest, or even think of 
rest, when visions of gorgeous equipages, superb 
costumes, stately drags, delightful attaches , mad¬ 
dening music, fascinating strangers, and thrilling 
polo-contests were churning in your brain in one 
uproarious chaos? What chance for the lotus to 
bloom when Coming Gowing’s priceless iron grays, 
and Mrs. Gatling Gunn’s darling duds of ponies, 
and Mrs. Van Amburgh’s garish family-coach, and 
the sleek cobs of countless foreign emissaries were 
tearing up the Avenue in one grand, well-bred 
tear? Peace and tranquillity had abandoned the 
ancient seaport town, and in their stead the land¬ 
scape was rife with the glitter and shine of a thou¬ 
sand liveries, the shop-keepers were selling white 
flannel at an enormous advance in price, and a 
bevy of Mexican ponies were kicking their heels 
in aristocratic stables impatient for the fray. 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


123 


Everybody had arrived. The hotels were full, 
the boarding-houses- overflowing. The most dila¬ 
tory cottager had taken down his window-shutters. 
People who had money and were able to cut a 
dash, and people who had money enough to come 
and see other people cut a dash (itself an expen¬ 
sive pleasure), crowded every available nook and 
shelter. Little Chicky Chalmers was there, on 
a new drag with yellow wheels with red stripes. 
Dear Muchfeedi Pasha of the Turkish legation 
smiled once more, right and left, from his wagonet, 
as he brandished the whip over his dark brown 
pair. Stylish, handsome New York girls, perched 
on Gerald Pumystone’s dog-cart or giving color to 
Stylington Ribblehurst’s tandem, inquired eagerly 
the name of the bewitching little Baltimorean in 
Mamie Hatche’s phaeton, who looked as if her 
clothes had been fired at her, but had such a lovely 
face. Dashing, piquant, garrulous Philadelphians, 
with large white feathers in their broad-brimmed 
hats, scrutinized with awe calm, fastidious, well-bred 
looking girls from Boston, whose only blemish, to 
quote Mrs. Gunn, was holding themselves “ off ” 
their looks. 

It was a breathless, whirling pace, but it was fun. 
The beach, calls, tennis, polo, picnics, receptions, 
the Avenue, the Fort, dinners, hops, balls, and 


124 THE confessions of a frivolous girl. 

church, and then through the list again ad infini¬ 
tum meeting charming people whom you saw 
every day, flirting with charming people whom 
you had never met before and whom you never 
expected to meet again, exchanging a word with 
some impecunious slave, dashing off on the arm of 
a transient millionnaire,—such was the delirious 
round of our days, but it was fun. 

And if in the midst of all this whirl I ever stopped 
to think, it was to feel thankful that Papa was rich, 
and that we were able to have all sorts of dresses 
and carriages and harnesses and horses and grooms. 
For, in order to be anything but a lay-figure in the 
pageant, it was necessary to have all these, and 
have them in perfection. “ Do everything in tip¬ 
top style ” was the motto of the community, and 
it was towards this goal that everybody tended. 
Not, by any means, that everybody came up to the 
standard. Far from it. The canons of taste were 
sinned against almost as frequently as the Com¬ 
mandments. Ever and anon some fascinating 
goddess in the midst of the press, reclining with 
consummate grace upon the cushions of her artis¬ 
tically appointed barouche, would shudder, and 
whisper in a voice of horror to her companion, as 
some outrageously dressed barbarian from the 
outside world dashed by, “ Did you ever see any- 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


125 


thing so peculiar?” The lovely eyes of many a 
girl to whom the conventionalities of society were 
as a second alphabet were opened in well-bred as¬ 
tonishment at the outlandish movements of maidens 
to whom “ hops ” were a delightful but evidently 
novel experience. And yet, rank as these offen¬ 
ces seemed, they did but represent the yearnings 
and struggles of people burning to attain the ele¬ 
gant finish, the exquisite deportment, that distin¬ 
guished those in whom the laws of good-breed¬ 
ing were innate. Although still far from the 
throne, the eyes of these quick-witted nouveaux 
riches were ever directed towards it. A short sea¬ 
son’s experience would teach them to tone down and 
blend more harmoniously their colors. Wealth, 
the sine qua non> was theirs; time would complete 
the rest. The lessons learned from experience 
would bear fruit in the next generation, if they 
kept their money. In the brilliant equipages of 
their sons and the faultless toilettes of their daugh¬ 
ters, the fathers and mothers who smarted to-day 
were to find balm for their wounds. The fastidi¬ 
ous laughed and sniffed now at the atrocities of Mrs. 
Dave Landry, wife of the patentee of “ Landry’s 
Cleansing Soap,” as she strutted ostentatiously 
through the corridors of the Ocean House; but the 
time would come, perhaps, when her daughter 


126 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


Blanche would be pronounced the most fascinating 
girl in town and her son, Hermann Landry, become 
such a master of etiquette as to feel instinctively, if 
he happened to be in his bath when Mrs. Stylington 
Ribblehurst whispered to him through the tele¬ 
phone, a desire to put on his embroidered dressing- 
gown before answering her summons. 

The ignorant rich had a future, but for the poor 
man there was no hope. Newport was no place 
for paupers, except foreigners and celebrities. 
Girl as I was, I appreciated how fortunate it was 
for me that people, as our carriage passed, turned 
involuntarily to admire the brilliancy of our har¬ 
nesses,. the beauty of our horses, the dignified 
faces of our grooms, the general stylishness and 
costliness, in fact, of the tout ensemble. 

As for me individually, if I had been a success 
in New York, I had become doubly one her«*. 
Even Mamma expressed fears that my head might 
be turned by the amount of attention showered 
upon me. Steadily upon the go from noon to 
early dawn, I had literally barely time to breathe, 
much less to think. There was rarely an enter¬ 
tainment, however small, to which I was not in¬ 
vited, and every stranger made a point of being 
introduced to me. I had grown older, too. Suc¬ 
cessful contact with the world had proved an anti- 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


127 


dote to diffidence. In my words and actions there 
were few traces left of the ingenue. Mrs. Gunn 
could no longer complain that I did not hold my 
head up. I swept through the halls of fashion 
with a style and abandon that sometimes aston¬ 
ished even myself, and must have made others turn 
green with jealousy. 

And yet every now and then a ghastly feeling 
would creep over me that somehow it was all 
terribly hollow and a dreadful waste of time. 
Often in the thick of a ball-room the thought 
“What is the good of all this?’’ would steal 
upon me and haunt me like a nightm. ~e. When 
I laid my head upon my pillow at night, nasty 
little voices would whisper in my ears until I 
grew nearly frantic, “ Sawdust, sawdust! ” If I ever 
paused for a moment in my mad career, if I by 
any chance had time to think, the buzz of these 
tormenting spirits oppressed me so, that, to save 
myself from becoming morbidly blue, I was forced 
to plunge again into the ocean of gayety. I found 
that my only security from the pricks of conscience 
was to keep upon the go the whole time. Even thus 
I was ever conscious of a big weight at my heart, but 
while the music lasted I felt that it could grow no 
larger. I was not happy, and I knew that I was 
not happy; but how could I bear the idea of re- 


128 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


nouncing the admiration that I had come to regard 
almost as a positive right, of giving up all my fun, 
and subsiding into a quiet stay-at-home little body, 
whose only dissipation was philanthropy? “ Con¬ 
sider your immortal soul,” whispered the still 
small voice. “ Oh yes, I know,” I would reply, 
with a little spasmodic kick of despair; “but it 
seems to me like saving my immortal soul at the 
expense of my arms and legs, and I care for my 
arms and legs, oh, so much! ” 

Then, too, Mamma bothered me dreadfully at 
tjiis time. Of course she was immensely proud of 
my success, and was naturally anxious to have me 
make a good match; but it was awfully provoking 
to be everlastingly nagged with questions as to 
whether I liked this man and how much I had 
seen of that one. She was the whole time in a 
perpetual state of worry lest I should engage myself 
on the sly to some one of whom she disapproved. 
She called me secretive, because I refused to tell 
her to the square inch the state of my feelings in 
regard to Mr. Blake. She must have asked me 
at least twenty times in the course of the summer 
whether I corresponded with Harry Coney. The 
latter was her especial bite noire. There was noth¬ 
ing disagreeable that she did not say about him. 
I used to stand up for him stubbornly when she 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


129 


abused him, and the discussion generally ended 
with Mamma’s retiring from the room in a flood of 
tears, calling me an unfilial child. I suppose that 
it seemed perfectly brutal of me to act so, but how 
could I help it? I couldn’t tell Mamma what I 
did n’t know myself. Her questions were prompted, 
I knew, by her affection for me; but, after all, it 
was my heart that was to be disposed of, and it was 
dreadfully irritating to be continually suspected of 
wanting to play ducks and drakes with it. Besides, 
with due respect to Mamma, I felt sure that curi¬ 
osity often prompted her, against her better judg¬ 
ment, to try to pump me; and I do not believe 
that even an angel would stand being pumped. 

It was Mamma’s hobby that I should marry a 
rich man. I must do her the justice to say that 
she never told me so in express words; but all 
her innuendoes pointed that way. I noticed, for 
instance, that if any one whose financial outlook 
was gloomy happened to devote himself to me, I 
was sure to hear something horrible about him 
before long; either that his habits were bad, or 
that there was insanity in the family, or that he 
had but one lung, or some other ghastly thing. 
On the other hand, if I ever chanced to mention 
some bit of gossip which cast a reflection on the 
brains or morals of any of the wealthy creatures 


9 


130 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

who admired me, Mamma would invariably re¬ 
mark that it was very silly to repeat such ill- 
natured things, and that she had always heard the 
subject of my stricture spoken of as a most de¬ 
lightful young man. 

I was also haunted more or less by the feeling 
that, exciting as it all was, my daily way was over 
gunpowder vaults, that might at any time explode 
and cause me a great deal of unhappiness. To 
tell the truth, three or four young men were be¬ 
coming so desperately devoted to me that I was 
liable any moment to be made the victim of an 
harassing scene. As luck would have it, all my 
former admirers had congregated at Newport. 
The Pumystones and Blakes owned cottages there, 
and Harry Coney had taken rooms in a snuggery 
near the Club. Even Murray Hill came up from 
New York every week to spend Sunday with his 
family, and showed himself on the Avenue on quite 
a respectable-looking horse. In regard to the 
latter I did not feel much alarm, for although he 
still came to see me sometimes, and seemed to 
imply by his manner that his feeling for me was 
just as strong as ever, he never showed any dispo¬ 
sition to trench upon dangerous ground. 

But for the others I could not say as much. 
Mr. Manhattan Blake was more attentive than 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 13 I 

ever. He appeared at the house almost every day. 
He sent me books, he loaded me with flowers. 
Because I refused to walk on the Cliffs with him 
oftener than once a week, he looked the imperson¬ 
ation of human despair. I lived in mortal dread 
of his going down on his knees and forcing me to 
decide. Whenever we were alone together, he 
expressed his affection by the most unequivocal 
hints; but thus far I had managed to misunder¬ 
stand him and change the subject in time. I knew, 
however, that just as surely as the sun shone in 
heaven it had got to come sooner or later. And 
when it did come what should I do? Oh, what 
should I do? The worst of it was I did not have 
the least idea whether I liked him or not; or 
rather I knew that I liked him a little, but was in 
doubt as to the amount. One day I would make 
up my mind I did not care a pin ever to see him 
again, and yet, if a day or two chanced to pass 
without my having seen him, I was sure to feel 
uneasy and out of sorts until I did. My fervent 
hope was that fate would stave off the evil day for 
a long time to come. I should be so much hap¬ 
pier if things remained as they were. I did not 
want to refuse Mr. Blake. I hated the thought of 
giving him up. But, on the other hand, I was not 
ready for the altar. I had no desire to be mar- 


132 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

ried at present. The idea of linking myself for 
eternity to a man, when viewed as a proximate 
reality, had as yet no convincing charms for me. 
I was not in the mood to give up my freedom for 
any one’s sake. There was a great deal about Mr. 
Blake that fascinated me, but there was also a 
great deal about him that I did not like, or at any 
rate had suspicions in regard to. I knew that 
Papa thought him namby-pamby. And while 
Papa had prejudices, and was matter-of-fact in his 
tastes, I felt that about most things he was awfully 
sensible. I could not feel sure that he might not 
be right. 

Besides, there were Harry Coney and Gerald 
Pumystone to be considered. On certain days I 
almost felt doubts as to whether I did not like the 
former about as well as Mr. Blake. It was in my 
naughty moods, as I have already mentioned, that 
these doubts assailed me; but then my naughty 
moods were apt to be tolerably frequent. If I 
were to marry Mr. Blake, thought I, and one of these 
naughty moods should come upon me in a wedded 
state, how dreadful it would be ! Mr. Pumystone, 
too, had been extremely devoted to me lately. I 
had driven with him on his dog-cart so much that 
people had noticed it considerably. I did not 
suppose that his attentions were to be taken in a 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


133 


serious way, but I could not feel perfectly certain 
as to the light in which I ought to regard them. 
There was no doubt of the fact that he was ever¬ 
lastingly hanging around me, — so much so, that 
Mamma was in high feather about it, and was for 
ever praising him up to the skies in my presence. 
All these considerations weighed with me more or 
less of course, and I felt myself growing thin in 
the endeavor to solve the problem to the satisfac¬ 
tion of everybody, myself included. 

In order to describe more effectively the remain¬ 
der of this summer’s campaign, — for, in view of 
all that happened, campaign is the appropriate 
word, — I am going to make use again of that 
little morocco-covered diary in which my daily 
experiences were chronicled. It is a complete 
register in black and white of my thoughts and 
feelings at this time, fresh from the mint. Let it 
tell its own story. 

July 29. 

The season may fairly be said to be in full blast. 
It is tremendously gay. I spent this morning at 
the Stillman Eastons’, playing tennis. They have 
two Boston girls staying with them. The latter 
were rather pretty, and did not impress me as 
being especially intellectual. I dare say, though, 
that they are walking dictionaries in disguise. I 


134 THE confessions of a frivolous girl. 

feel sure that Murray Hill would not have to ex¬ 
plain to them the composition of a bone. Poor 
Murray Hill! He came up from New York for Sun¬ 
day, and I sat next to him at dinner at the Horsely 
Clymbers’ on Saturday. He certainly improves 
every day. I do respect and admire him beyond 
measure. He is a splendid man. I could make him 
an admirable sister. But that would n’t satisfy him; 
and I — oh, well — well, I don’t love him, and what’s 
the use of talking about it? I do wish, though, that 
he would wear straps when he rides on horse¬ 
back. He appeared on the Avenue the other day 
with his pantaloons half-way up to his knees. 

This afternoon I went to Polo, and afterwards to 
pour out tea at Mrs. Gunn’s reception. Harry 
Coney and Gerald Pumystone were both among 
the players. The former’s pony fell with him in 
one of the most exciting parts,' and Mr. Coney was 
pitched on to his head. When I saw him go over, 
I thought he would undoubtedly be killed, and 
gave, without meaning to, a little shriek. Mamie 
Hatche and Pussy Baiker, who were in the next 
carriage, overheard me and smiled at one another. 
I could have bitten out my tongue for having done 
it, but I thought of course that he was killed. 

At the reception, Muchfeedi Pasha and the Hon. 
Hare Hare never left my side. The latter is spend- 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


35 


ing a fortnight with Mrs. Gunn, and seems to have 
made improvements in his dress. I asked Mrs. 
Gunn the other day what she found so attractive 
about him. “ He is odious, my dear, de fond en 
comble ,” replied she, “ but I like to have the prize 
ox in my stables.” 

I dined at the Stylington Ribblehursts’, and sat 
between Mr. Manhattan Blake and Muchfeedi Pasha. 
The world seems to have made up its mind that I 
am going to marry Mr. Blake. He invariably sits 
next to me at any dinner to which we both happen 
to be invited. People with sensitive organizations 
send me in with some one else, and put Mr. Blake 
on my other side. Those whose taste is less deli¬ 
cate do it up brown, and send me in with Mr. 
Blake as well. Lately I have sat next to Gerald 
Pumystone a good deal. I want to sit between 
him and Mr. Blake some time. It would be fun. 
I wonder how they would act. Mr. Blake was in 
a low state of mind. He talked about giving up 
the law for a year, and going to Europe to study 
art and the languages. I imagine that he expected 
me to manifest great surprise at the announcement, 
for he paused for a moment after making it. It was 
rather a revelation, but I did not make any com¬ 
ment until he inquired what I thought of the plan. 
I told him that in my opinion he had better stick 
to the law. 


136 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

“ Do you think there would be more hope for 
me if I did?” murmured he, with a little nervous 
look. 

“ Hope? ” said I. “ Of course you know a great 
deal better than I do what you are best fitted for, 
but I should suppose that you would probably 
find the law the most satisfactory in the long run, 
Mr. Blake.” And then, before he could repeat his 
question, I exclaimed, “ What do you think of the 
tennis tournament? ” 

It is dreadful to have to be on one’s guard the 
whole time, but the least unwariness on my part 
would lead to an explosion. And even when I 
head him off as I did to-night, I feel that he is 
perfectly capable of supposing that my reply is 
intended to be allegorical, and construing it into a 
tacit encouragement of his suit, which maiden coy¬ 
ness prohibits my abetting openly. I noticed to¬ 
night that he looked rather happy than otherwise 
after what I said. I do wish that I knew whether I 
liked him or not. 

August 4. 

I have been driving all the afternoon with Ger¬ 
ald Pumystone. His manners are certainly remark¬ 
ably good, and all the little frills which he puts on 
in general society do not intrude themselves no¬ 
ticeably into a tete-a-tete. But then he is awfully 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


137 


stupid if one attempts any conversation out of 
the beaten track. He took it into his head this 
afternoon to follow Mr. Blake’s example, and do 
a little hinting. It was in the jocular vein, to be 
sure, and I had no difficulty in treating it as badi¬ 
nage, but I felt all of a tremor for a moment at 
the thought of how completely I was at his mercy 
if he chose to select his dog-cart as a place of pro¬ 
posal. My fear was manifest in my answer, for I 
told him that if he talked any more such nonsense 
I would get down and walk. 

The tennis tournament began to-day. We drew 
lots for partners, and I am doomed to play with 
the Hon. Hare Hare. The games are to be four- 
handed; a lady and gentleman on each side. 
There are eight pairs, and the pair that wins the 
most games is to have a gorgeous pair of rackets. 
Harry Coney is to play with Mamie Hatche, Com¬ 
ing Gowing with Peepy Marshmellow, Gerald Pumy- 
stone with Grace Irving, Chicky Chalmers with 
Lina Van Rooster, Willy Easton with Maud Van 
Amburgh, Muchfeedi Pasha with Pussy Baiker, 
and Thedy Ribblehurst with Nuny Clymber. I 
do not see the point of having Muchfeedi Pasha 
play, as he hardly ever had a racket in his hands. 
But then, as Mrs. Ribblehurst said, it might hurt 
his feelings not to ask him, and he is so good- 
looking. 


138 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


August 9. 

I have been to-day at a morning German, two 
receptions, and a dinner, and am nearly dead. The 
dinner was at the Stillman Eastons’, and my curios¬ 
ity to see how Gerald Pumystone and Manhattan 
Blake would act with me between them was grati¬ 
fied at last. Mr. Pumystone took me in, and Mr. 
Blake was on my other side. The former did all 
the running. Poor Mr. Blake seemed subdued 
and almost sulky. It may have been because I 
ran away from him and spent the whole time at 
the Baikers’ reception in a retired spot with 
Mr. Coney when I knew he was looking. But 
what if I did! It is none of Manhattan Blake’s 
business whom I talk to, and he may sulk until 
doomsday for all I care. 

August ii. 

I am too disappointed for any thing. We lost 
the tennis tournament just by a hair’s-breadth, 
and those lovely rackets are the property of Ma¬ 
mie Hatche and Harry Coney. We had each 
beaten all our sets, and the match lay between our 
two pairs. We lost it by only one game. If we 
had been playing against any one but Harry 
Coney and Mamie Hatche, I know that we should 
have won. But I became very nervous. I was par¬ 
ticularly anxious to play well against Mr. Coney, 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


139 


and for that very reason I could not hit a single 
ball. The Hon. Hare Hare did wonders, but it was 
of no use. As the men say, I went all to pieces. 
I would have given worlds not to have had it 
happen. Mamie Hatche looked as proud as Tar- 
quinia. Harry Coney has been devoted to her 
lately, and she knows that I know it. 


August 14. 

I had another narrow escape to-day. Mr. Blake 
persuaded me to walk with him on the Cliffs, and 
as it was a most lovely afternoon, we clambered 
down on to the rocks, and sat looking seaward to¬ 
gether for some time. He told me a great deal 
about himself that I had not heard before; notably 
the details of an affaire chi coeur he had had, when he 
was twenty-one and in college, with a Philadelphia 
girl at Mt. Desert. According to his own account 
he must have been most shamefully treated. She 
engaged herself to him, and although their engage¬ 
ment was kept secret they were to all intents and 
purposes betrothed. This state of affairs contin¬ 
ued without change apparently until within a few 
days of her leaving Mt. Desert, when she said to 
him one morning that she had come to the con¬ 
clusion that she did not care for him as she 
ought to care for a husband, and that she must 


140 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


ask him to give her up. She sent him back the 
little engagement-ring he had had forwarded from 
Tiffany’s for her, and all the memorials of his few 
weeks of happiness, and took the next steamer for 
home, leaving him almost heart-broken among 
strangers whom he had entirely neglected for her 
sake. 

He pictured to me most graphically and with 
intense feeling the grief her conduct had caused 
him, and how he had subsequently grown cynical, 
morbid, and out of conceit with life. I had had 
a vague idea, from remarks he had let drop 
before during the winter, that he had passed 
through some such experience, but of course 
the particulars made it seem much more dreadful. 
I had grown so completely absorbed in his recital, 
and felt so much sympathy for him, that I had 
quite forgotten our own relation, when all of a 
sudden these words struck my ear: — 

“ Yes, Miss Palmer, it has been a terrible ordeal, 
and I thought at one time I should never be able 
to care for any woman again; but, thank Heaven, 
I can say honestly to-day that I love a thousand 
times more deeply and truly than ever before, — 
and the object of that love is you.” 

I jumped as if I had been shot. Between the 
cliff on which we were sitting and the next one 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 141 

was a deep chasm or gully into which the waves 
rushed at high tide, but which this afternoon was 
empty. We had previously been amusing ourselves 
by dropping pebbles down it into the puddles that 
had formed at the bottom. The sides were all 
shaggy with wet brown sea-weed, and starfish and 
other marine creatures were crawling about in its 
recesses. 

I happened at the moment to be dangling my 
parasol by the ring just above this chasm, and 
quick as a flash, as the words “ and the object of 
that love is you ” fell upon the air, I instinctively 
let the ring slip from my finger, and my parasol 
descended to commune with the sea-anemones. 

“ O Mr. Blake, my parasol, my brand-new para¬ 
sol ! ” I shrieked, bending over the abyss as far as 
was prudent, in an apparent endeavor to regain it. 
“ Oh, I have lost my parasol! ” 

Mr. Blake, half reluctantly, as if wishing to im¬ 
ply that where true love was concerned, the letting 
fall of a parasol was but a drop in the bucket, said, 
“ I will climb down and get it for you, Miss Palmer.” 

“ But is n’t it awfully dangerous? ” I cried. 

The idea of danger seemed to inspire him, and 
with a light laugh he began to climb down the 
face of the precipice, in spite of my eager protes¬ 
tations that the parasol was of no value and 


142 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

very ugly. I watched him descend from ledge to 
ledge with more or less apprehension for his safety, 
but with decided exultation as to the success of my 
ruse. He reached the bottom at last, and recov¬ 
ered my property without further misfortune than 
wetting one foot in a puddle which was screened 
from sight by sea-weed. He looked up at me tri¬ 
umphantly, and shouted out something, but I was 
too far off to understand what he said. Five min¬ 
utes later he was by my side, panting and wet, with 
the parasol in his hand. 

“ Oh, thank you ever so much, Mr. Blake! ” I 
cried. “ It was very, very kind of you.” 

“ It was a very great pleasure to me, I assure 
you,” said he. 

“I think we had better be going home,” said I. 
“ It is getting late, and you ought not to sit down 
after heating yourself.” 

All the way home I talked just as fast as I could 
about indifferent subjects, and Mr. Blake did not 
make any further attempt to probe the state of my 
affections. He seemed very quiet, and when he 
bade me adieu at my door, simply said, “ Good 
night.” 

But it was certainly a wonderful escape. And 
what is worse, I really do not know what I should 
have answered if matters had come to a denouement. 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


143 


August 18. 

Harry Coney declares that he does not care a 
straw about Mamie Hatche, but he is certainly 
with her a great deal. I had an awful dispute with 
Mamma about him last night. She wished to know 
my exact relations with him, and because I refused 
to tell her, we had it hot and heavy. She called 
him an unprincipled adventurer, and I vowed, in a 
fit of passion, that if he asked me I would marry 
him. Mamma was awfully distressed, and called 
Papa into the room, who maddened me by saying 
I had been very foolish in refusing Mr. Hill. 
The row ended by my stamping my foot, and 
abandoning the field in tears, calling, as a part¬ 
ing shot, heaven to witness that I would marry 
whomever I liked. Of course I have been misera¬ 
ble ever since. Why won’t they let me alone? 

August 26. 

The end has come. The pitcher that goes too 
often to the well is sure to be broken at last. 
Manhattan Blake sails for Europe on Saturday, and 
I — oh. I don’t know what to think about myself. 
I am perfectly wretched. And yet if it was to 
be done all over again, I would act just the 
same; that is, I think that I would. Yes, I know 


144 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

I would. He accused me of flirting. He said 
that I had encouraged him and deluded him 
with false hopes. How cruel, how unmanly, of 
him! I never intentionally deluded anybody. I 
simply did not know my own mind. When it 
came to the actual point, I found out that I did 
not like him well enough to say yes, but before he 
asked me I really felt some doubts. I do not even 
now feel perfectly sure that I shall be happy with¬ 
out him. I shall miss his attentions dreadfully. 
I shall not have half so much to think about for 
the future. My heart feels like a dry sponge. 
All the romance is wrung out of it. And yet I 
acted rightly, my instinct tells me that I did. We 
should not have got on together. Frivolous as I 
am, I have some ambition, and I want to marry a 
man who is in earnest, and Mr. Blake, in spite 
of all his interesting views of life, may never 
amount to any thing, I am afraid. 

And Harry Coney too ! I grew perfectly white 
with rage when I heard of his perfidy. To think 
of his engaging himself to that little snip of a 
Mamie Hatche, after having insinuated to me, time 
and time again this summer, that I was the only 
woman he could ever care for! Mr. Hatche is 
richer than Papa. Mamma was right. But it is a 
dreadful thing to think that men are capable of 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


145 


such treachery. He might have broken my heart 
If I had been of a little more credulous disposition, 
he might have ruined my happiness for life. I 
wish him joy of Mamie, I am sure. She scarcely 
knows how to spell, and if she has not a party to 
go to, invariably falls to sleep after dinner. But 
looked at from any point of view, it is a blow 
to one’s pride to be tossed aside like an old 
glove. 

I met Mrs. Gunn driving on the Avenue this 
morning, and she cried out, in passing, “ I warned 
you that he was no chicken, ma chkre” Ugh ! it is 
simply disgusting. 

I tried my best to ward off Mr. Blake, but it 
was of no use. After my recent experience, I 
ought to have known better than to walk on the 
Cliffs with him again. Unless I had flung myself 
into the sea, I could not have prevented him from 
speaking this time. There was no convenient 
chasm and I had no parasol. Argus-eyed as I 
have lately been when in his presence, I was 
caught napping for the moment. We were sit¬ 
ting upon a flat rock, close to the water’s edge, 
enjoying the sunset, which was peculiarly fine. 
Entirely oblivious of what was working in his mind, 
I had become silent, as I often do when in the pres¬ 
ence of beautiful things, and, lost in admiration of 


IO 


146 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

the changing colors of the twilight, was repeating 
to myself Coleridge’s beautiful sonnet: — 

“ Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 

Just after sunset or by moonlight skies, 

To make the shifting clouds be what you please, 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 
Of a friend’s fancy; or with head bent low 
And cheek aslant, see — ” 

“ Miss Palmer,” broke in Mr. Blake at this moment, 

% 

“ I want to say something very particular to you.” 

During my reverie my eyes had been looking 
out over the sea, and when his words reached me 
I still kept my gaze fixed in that direction with¬ 
out moving a muscle, but I could feel the blood at 
the roots of my hair mount up and suffuse my 
face. Then followed from his lips a torrent of 
burning speech, the import of which was only too 
intelligible. He took in his my hand, which lay 
idly on my lap. “ Dearest Alice,” said he, “ will 
you be my wife? ” 

Alas for poor me, the time for decision was 
come! I must make up my mind now, once and 
for ever. No more shilly-shallying was possible. 
I could no longer flatter myself with the delusion 
that after all he might not really be in earnest. The 
misty garb of the lover had been thrown aside, and 
the would-be husband stood before me in all his 




MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


147 


grim reality. The question was simply, Had I 
rather become Mrs. Manhattan Blake, or remain 
plain Alice Palmer? And it was necessary to come 
to a definite conclusion at once. Insidious voices, 
it is true, whispered, “ Temporize, delay, tell him 
that you will give him an answer in six months; ” 
but a finer instinct warned me that to tell him now 
that I did not know, or to ask him to wait, or to let 
things remain as they were, would be tantamount 
to surrender. Sweet as the Fabian policy always 
is, I realized that in this case it would be synony¬ 
mous with a tacit consent to kneel down with him 
some day at the altar. But then to give him up 
for good seemed equally horrible. The thought 
of either alternative filled me with dismay. Just 
as the long-forgotten train of events of their past lives 
are said to recur vividly to the minds of drowning 
people, all that had happened during my acquaint¬ 
ance with Mr. Blake — his charms, his demerits, his 
peculiarities, his ideas, in fact, all that he had ever 
said and done —came back to me with photographic 
distinctness. In these few minutes I seemed to 
live the past year over again, and at the end I felt 
that I was still tossing upon a stormy sea of doubts, 
helpless as the jelly-fish wobbling in the water at 
my feet. 

“ Say that you will, dearest, — one little word,” I 


148 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

heard him murmur. I gave a start, and half uncon¬ 
sciously drew my hand from his grasp and clasped 
it in its mate. Although so largely mechanical, 
the gesture filled me with a sense of recovered 
freedom, seemed symbolical as it were of breaking 
the chain. 

“ You don’t want to be married yet. You don’t 
really love him, you know you don’t,” cried one of 
the still small voices that have taken up their abid¬ 
ing-place within me, and strive for the mastery of 
my being. 

“But you can’t give him up. You can’t, you 
can’t. He is ever so nice, and you like him so 
much,” sighed the concierge of my aching heart. 

“ Reflect, though; it is not for a day, but for life 
that he seeks you,” whispered some guardian or 
evil angel, I know not which. 

Yes, there was the bitter truth. It was for life 
that he sought me, and I — oh, I did not feel pre¬ 
pared to bind myself to pass my life with anybody. 
I like him very, very much, thought I, but when it 
comes to this, I cannot, oh, I cannot. Yes, he 
must go. He must go, even if it break my heart. 
I am sorry for him, but it must be done. 

And as it began to dawn upon me what my an¬ 
swer must be, I felt myself congealing into a state 
of stately reserve. A stern dignity began to creep 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


149 


over my muscles and sinews. The iciness which ex¬ 
perience has taught me preludes a refusal stole into 
my heart and glittered in my eyes. I put out my 
hand, metaphorically speaking, to grasp the cup. 

While still I wavered, — for, in spite of my reso¬ 
lution, I still did waver, — my lifted eyes chanced 
to fall upon two figures clearly outlined against 
the evening sky, a man’s and a girl’s. They were 
sitting together, much as we were, upon a dis¬ 
tant cliff. He was stretched out at her feet and 
looking up in her face. Her back was turned 
to us and her head concealed by her parasol, but 
I should have recognized that parasol miles away. 
They were Mamie Hatche and Harry Coney. 
The monster! 

Some girls in my place would, I dare say, under 
the influence of this discovery, have accepted his 
rival on the spot. I can appreciate now what marry¬ 
ing out of pique means, but I am not that kind of 
girl. For the moment I almost forgot Mr. Blake 
in the pangs of wounded pride, in the bitterness of 
playing second fiddle. Had it come to this that 
I, Alice Palmer, must own myself discarded for an¬ 
other, and such another ! Never; it should not be. 

It was a trivial incident, but trivial incidents 
often shape our lives. Insignificant as it was, it 
turned the already trembling balance, it sealed the 


150 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


fate of Mr. Blake. It is always difficult to say, 
after a thing has happened, how one would have 
acted if certain determining elements had been 
wanting; but it is just possible that if my eyes had 
not chanced to fall at that critical moment upon 
Mr. Coney and Mamie, I might — I do not think 
it at all probable — but I might have given a little 
less decided answer to Mr. Blake. 

As it was, I turned to him, and said as kindly 
and sweetly as I could, consistently with the dread¬ 
ful embarrassment that one feels under such cir¬ 
cumstances, what it was necessary for me to tell 
him; that I did not love him, that I had no desire 
to be married, that he had better carry out his 
plan of going to Europe, and forget me. It was a 
very painful scene. He would not take no for an 
answer, but begged and teased me to think his 
proposal over for six months.. I felt like crying, 
but although tears were in my eyes, I was firm 
enough to assure him that time could make no 
difference in my feelings towards him. When I 
broke the silence that followed his outpouring of 
heart-broken words with a well-meant, but what I 
can see now was an injudicious, expression of regret, 
that our friendship must have such an ending, he 
gave a bitter, sepulchral sort of laugh, and, quoting 
a French couplet which I could not understand, 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


151 

accused me of having played fast and loose with 
him. This naturally made me very angry, and 
I protested with flashing eyes that I had done 
nothing of the kind. He repeated his statement 
in such a cruel, cynical way, alluding so disagreeably 
to my relations with Mr. Coney and Mr. Pumystone, 
that I started to my feet and told him I never 
wished to see him again, — never. It was a perfectly 
dreadful scene. He tried to escort me home, but 
I forbade him to come near me, and in a state of 
deep agitation I tore along the Cliffs until I reached 
our house. I looked back once to see if he was 
following me, and observed that he had resumed 
his seat upon the rocks and was looking out over 
the sea. 

This morning I received a note from him, very 
cold and very formal, enclosing some pressed 
flowers, — flowers that I had given him, the bud 
which I was foolish enough to let him have at my first 
ball, — and he sails for Europe on Saturday. I have 
felt all day like sitting down and writing to him to 
come to me, but I know that if I did, I should destroy 
the note the instant after it was written. One mo¬ 
ment I feel as if I would give worlds not to have 
said the fatal words, and yet, whenever the idea of 
being linked to him for life crosses my thoughts, I 
tremble to think how near I came to saying yes 


152 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

yesterday afternoon. If it had n’t been for Papa 
and — perhaps Harry Coney, only think, we might 
have been sitting in the parlor at this moment an 
affianced couple. It is rather a ghastly thought, 
on the whole. 

I cried over the flowers. The little bud was all 
shrivelled up, so I had to fling it into the grate, 
but some of the others were rather nicely pressed. 
Poor fellow, he will have a horribly gloomy pas¬ 
sage. I wonder if he is a good sailor. 

I am glad that Mamie Hatche did not have the 
impudence to write and tell me of her engagement. 
Everybody is talking about it. Mamma, when I 
came into the breakfast-room this morning, asked 
if I had heard the news in such a funereal tone 
that I supposed somebody must be dead. 

“What news, Mamma? ” said I. 

“ Harry Coney is engaged to Mamie Hatche, M 
and then she added in a voice of sympathy, “ My 
poor child, I am very, very sorry for you.” 

It was simply exasperating to be pitied, but I 
suppose that, owing to our previous violent discus¬ 
sions on the subject, Mamma fancies that I cared 
seriously for the faithless Harry. She has thus 
far no inkling of my break with Mr. Blake, and as 
I have been on the verge of tears all day, she nat¬ 
urally lays my wretchedness at his fickle rival’s 


MR. MANHATTAN BLAKE. 


153 


door. Everybody will say, of course, that Mr. 
Coney has broken my heart, and I shall be put in 
the category with Mamie Van Rooster and the other 
victims of misplaced affection. Mothers will point 
me out in the street to their refractory daughters, 
as the foolish girl whose happiness for life was ruined 
by a designing adventurer against whom she had 
been warned. Well, let them if they want to; I don’t 
care. It was awfully good fun while it lasted, at 
any rate, and I ought to feel thankful that I am 
so well out of it, as the phrase is. Mamie Hatche 
is mistress of the situation now, but when she 
reaches the other side of the altar, my time will 
come. It will be flattering to my power of read¬ 
ing character, as well as soothing to my wounded 
pride, when I hear her crying for Sister Anna from 
the house-top. 

I have been writing so much longer than usual 
that my candle is at its last gasp. Poor Mr. Blake ! 
That is just what I wrote about Mr. Hill. I won¬ 
der if I can possibly be the least bit flirtatious. 
No, I am sure I am not. Any girl in my place 
would have done just the same. I couldn’t tell 
whether I liked him or not until he asked me. I 
was awfully sorry not to feel able to accept him, 
but— but such is life. 



IV. 

MY SECOND SEASON. 

J THINK that even my diary fails to express 
how unhappy I was after the occurrence of 
the events mentioned in the last chapter. For 
many days subsequent to the departure of Mr. 
Blake, I was conscious of a hollow, sinking sort of 
feeling that made the ordinary pleasures and occu¬ 
pations of my life seem dismally dull. A sense 
that everything in this world was distressingly flat, 
and that the sawdust was all coming out of my 
doll, haunted my waking and sleeping hours. Al¬ 
though I continued to go about as usual to dinner¬ 
parties and receptions, the remainder of the season 
palled upon me dreadfully, and even the invigor¬ 
ating days of early autumn failed to inspire in me 
aught but melancholy. The variegated splendors 
of the changing leaf, which, though they incline 
one more or less to meditation, had generally been 

















MY SECOND SEASON. 


155 


to me a source of infinite pleasure, suggested only 
gloomy, morbid fancies. I wandered around the 
shores unhappy as a ghost, and without much more 
color, looking out to sea, not exactly wondering 
what he was doing, but mulling over the various 
incidents of our acquaintance. 

Not that for one moment I ever really repented 
of my resolution, nor doubted that if it were to be 
done over again, I should be able to play a second 
time Lady Macbeth to my vacillating purpose. 
But yet I hated to think that he was wretched upon 
my account, and his accusation that I had played 
fast and loose with him kept recurring to my mind 
in spite of my repeated protestations that it was 
groundless. I should have as soon thought of rob¬ 
bing a bird’s-nest as of flirting deliberately with a 
young man and trying to break his heart in cold 
blood; still the result in this case had been almost 
as bad as if I had been actuated by some such 
malicious purpose, and I could not but feel dis¬ 
tress that I had been fashioned by nature so slow 
in making up my mind. I had not been to blame,— 
of course I had not been to blame, — but a sensitive 
soul will often crucify itself for imaginary faults. 

Besides, I missed him dreadfully. I missed his 
attentions. Not perhaps — although they were nice 
to have — because I valued them so very highly in 


156 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

themselves, but because it was hateful to feel that I 
could no longer have them if I wanted them. I had 
unconsciously come to regard them as a part of my 
daily existence, and now that they were wanting it 
seemed as if a big hole had been made in my life 
which it would be at present impossible to fill. 

At times, too, when I was particularly downcast, 
the awful doubt would assail me that my senti¬ 
ments toward Mr. Blake might, after all, have been 
synonymous with true love, and that, from having 
conceived a too extravagant ideal of how one was 
supposed to feel when under the influence of the 
divine passion, I had unwittingly neglected to grasp 
the cup of happiness, and doomed myself perhaps 
to perpetual .maidenhood. The moment, however, 
that I reflected seriously upon the matter, my in¬ 
stinct told me that my bosom had never as yet been 
visited by that absorbing feeling which I had read 
about in books, and heard described, — that ecstatic 
feeling which makes a woman forget all her own 
joys and sorrows in the delicious contemplation of 
and sympathy with those of some being of the 
other sex. But granting that I had not as yet 
known true love, was it likely that I should ever 
approach any nearer to that blissful state of mind? 
Was it probable that I should in the future enter¬ 
tain for any man a stronger feeling than I had felt 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


157 


for Mr. Blake? There was the rub. The outlook 
certainly seemed a gloomy one. As in the solitude 
of my chamber I thought over the list of the by 
any chance possible masculine possibilities of my 
acquaintance, I failed to recall a single one in whose 
individuality I felt the slightest incentive to merge 
my own. I could not but acknowledge that there 
were among them delightful fellows, and that sev¬ 
eral of them might make desirable mates for other 
girls, if they happened to fancy them. But in that 
word “ fancy ” lay my whole difficulty. The idea of 
going wild over any of them provoked in me only 
a smile. 

What, then, was I to do? I had always looked 
forward to being married some day, of course, or, 
rather, I had never taken the other side of the pic¬ 
ture into consideration. I had grown up under the 
impression that the greater portion of even moder¬ 
ately attractive girls become wives sooner or later, 
and my glass told me daily that I was far from 
wanting in personal charms. But now, in the face 
of what had happened, I felt constrained to whisper 
frequently to Grace Irving, to whom my troubles 
were no secret, that I felt in my bones I should die 
an old maid. 

“ We will pass our lives together then, my dear, 
with a parrot and two cats apiece,” was the inva- 


158 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

riable reply of my fidus Achates ; but even such a 
prospect as this failed to wholly restore peace to 
my mind. I dare say, however, that my moodiness 
and apathy were increased by the fact that it was 
dreadfully stupid at first after our return to town. 
Everybody and everything in New York looked 
torpid, and there was absolutely nothing on earth 
to do but make good resolutions for the winter and 
break them during the exasperating process of try¬ 
ing on clothes. I began to feel I ought to make 
some effort towards the improvement of my mind, 
and that to longer fritter away my time in dreaming 
or even in self-analysis would not be consonant with 
what was due to myself. With this object in view, 
Grace Irving, Nuny Clymber, Maud Van Amburgh, 
and I agreed to study English Literature every 
Wednesday at eleven under the Miss Driggs who 
had given us Shakspeare lessons the previous win¬ 
ter. Grace Irving and I also engaged a Miss Halk- 
bush to come to my house twice a week, in the 
morning, and go into the history of the Middle 
Ages with us. In the literature class we began 
with Chaucer and finished him in two lessons, and 
then took up Spenser, whom I had always before 
confounded somehow with Herbert Spencer, but 
who, of course, was an entirely different person. 
Miss Driggs considered that two cantos of the 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


159 


“Fairy Queen” were sufficient to familiarize us 
with his style, and then she took up Milton’s “ Para¬ 
dise Lost,” thinking that, as we had already studied 
Shakspeare, it would not be best to spend any more 
time over him. In history we examined very care¬ 
fully the reigns of the early German kings and 
emperors, an intimate knowledge of which Miss 
Halkbush declared indispensable to a thorough 
understanding of subsequent Teutonic events. For 
two or three weeks we had quite a fever of excite¬ 
ment over the Guelphs and Ghibellines and the 
Popes, and that splendid Frederick Barbarossa and 
Henry the Lion. At moments I pined to think 
that I had not been born a knight and lived in me¬ 
diaeval days. We ruined ourselves by investing in 
all sorts of curious maps and manuscripts, and I 
remember conceiving a strong admiration for the 
Prince of Wales, and buying his photograph be¬ 
cause I discovered that he was a descendant of the 
Guelphs. 

I undertook, also, to visit several poor families in 
connection with a charitable association in which 
Mamma was interested, and once a week I went in 
a carriage to see how they were getting on. I 
always felt terribly embarrassed in the presence 
of these unfortunate people, and had the greatest 
difficulty in thinking of anything to say. I made 


l 60 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

it a point to go as simply dressed as possible, so as 
not to wound their sensibilities by contrasting my 
condition with theirs; but, in spite of this precau¬ 
tion, I could see that I was invariably regarded as 
an intruder, whom it was necessary to tolerate for 
the sake of the dollars and cents that were likely to 
result from the visit. My moral influence over 
them, on which I had especially relied as an aux¬ 
iliary, amounted to absolutely nothing. They 
listened to my spiritual exhortations in the grim 
silence with which one whose breeding is bad re¬ 
ceives a stale story, and one degenerate wretch, 
upon whose unhappy wife I was trying to impress 
the efficacy of prayer, had the audacity to remark, 
“ Go it, Miss, and let’s see if the Lord’s Prayer ’ll set 
the pot a biling,” and then he laughed until the tears 
rolled down his cheeks at his irreverent jest. I 
could not help feeling that it did seem rather cold 
comfort and almost a mockery of their poverty to 
be sitting there warmly clad and plump, talking 
about the saving power of revealed religion to a 
starving creature with a drunken husband and 
seven small children. 

I meant well, but I realized my impotency. The 
women were the worst. They were not, like the 
men, deterred, by disparity of sex, from openly be¬ 
traying their contempt, and all my endeavors to get 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


161 


them to confide in me were signally unsuccessful. 
They answered my questions in regard to their 
habits and mode of life with a dogged sullenness 
that said as plainly as possible, “ None of your 
business,” and if I tried to awaken their sympathies 
by making friends with their children, the mother’s 
hatred of the visitor found vent in the tone in which 
she thundered at her unhappy offspring, “ Get down, 
Mary Jane, you brat, or yer’ll soil the lady’s 
dress ! ” This was the only reward I got for hero¬ 
ically taking up into my lap and kissing a ragged 
infant of two, whose dirtiness positively made me 
crawl. 

These and other kindred occupations served to 
divert my mind from feeding upon itself during the 
autumn months until the time came for me to be 
lured again into the vortex of winter gayety. The 
expression “ lured ” may draw forth from the cynical 
a smile, but it is the truth that there were times 
during the autumn when I felt almost prompted to 
give up society, or at any rate limit my party-going 
to very occasional appearances in the gay world. 
But when I came to look the matter squarely in the 
face I found myself unequal to the sacrifice, es¬ 
pecially as I did not feel at all sure but that, even 
ethically speaking, I should be the better for another 
season’s experience. What, for instance, was I to 


ii 


162 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


do if I didn’t go to parties? How should I em¬ 
ploy myself, — find occupation? Men had their 
professions, their business, but for a girl there was 
nothing. There was Frederick Barbarossa, and 
Paradise Lost, and the ragged infant, to be sure, — 
but — but could n’t I find time for them too? I 
had my mornings. Why would n’t they do for the 
improvement of my mind and for serious thoughts? 
Yes, there was no reason why I should make a her¬ 
mit of myself at this early stage, and renounce the 
world because of a few unintelligible twinges of 
conscience. Yes, I would go to parties. 

But then, too, I would go this year in modera¬ 
tion ; go enough, of course, to have a good time, 
but not run the thing into the ground, to quote 
Papa. I would be more careful also as to what I 
said and did. No young man should ever be able 
again to complain that I had beguiled him with 
false hopes. I would be discretion itself. I might 
flirt a little, perhaps, but only in such a way that 
the persons would understand that it was flirting, 
and only with persons who could by no chance 
become too desperate about me. 

These were good resolutions, and I flattered my¬ 
self that I should be able to keep them. I sallied 
forth to the first ball of the season in one of my 
new French dresses, with the firm conviction that 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


163 

I had become sober-minded, in fact, almost a prude. 
But to fancy one’s self regenerated before the fray is 
a totally different thing from being righteous under 
fire, and alas for the frailty of human determination ! 
I returned from that ball—it was at Mrs. Chal¬ 
mers’s, and I had a perfectly gorgeous time — the 
same giddy, excitable creature as of yore, with all 
my good resolves broken into little pieces, and the 
light of deliberately planned conquest in my eyes. 

From that day until the spectacle of Mrs. Gunn 
sitting in her boudoir, dressed in simple black, 
working a cross in beads upon an embroidery 
frame, told me that the Lenten season was upon us 
again, I never rested from the gay role of the but¬ 
terfly. I realize the humiliation involved in the 
confession, and the scornful laugh of the cynic re¬ 
verberates in my ears. I had meant to be so dis¬ 
creet, I had fancied I should be so dignified, I 
had so fully believed with all my heart I was 
going to show the other girls that there could be 
moderation in everything, and that— Oh, well, 
what is the use of sighing over the past? I failed, 
I acknowledge it frankly. I failed signally, I broke 
down hopelessly; I “went it” hammer and tongs, 
just as wildly as any of them. I accepted every 
invitation. I stayed everywhere as late as I could. 
I flirted desperately. When people said, “ You will 


164 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

ruin your health, dear,” an amiable smile lit up 
my face, and I kept on just the same as ever. Papa 
used to cry, “ We must shut down on this.” 
Mamma vowed that I should go out only two 
evenings in the week; but somehow or other their 
threats were never executed, and my own sweet 
will was my sole guide and regulator. 

Perhaps it was wicked, — I know it was foolish ; 
but only think of the temptation ! When I made 
those autumnal vows, I had overestimated my 
strength of purpose, I confess, but I had also in 
making them underestimated the outside pressure 
that would be brought to bear upon me. How 
could I have told that I was going to be such a 
favorite? I had no conception that people would 
make such a fuss about me. It is perfectly easy 
for a homely girl or a girl who has nothing to say 
for herself, to declare that she derives more gen¬ 
uine enjoyment from reading Paradise Lost than 
from dancing the German. I dare say she does. 
I should in her case. If I had had to spend the 
evening in solitary grandeur beside Mamma on the 
benches, or depend for my amusement on the pity 
or policy of transient men, digging potatoes would 
have seemed nearer akin to my idea of pleasure, 
and reading Paradise Lost a positive dissipation. 
When Millicent Davis reproved me in her snubby 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


65 


way for neglecting my poor families in order to 
drive out on Stylington Ribblehurst’s drag, I could 
not help feeling like saying to her, “ You would 
give your eye-teeth, my love, to be in my shoes. 
If he were to ask you to go you would be so 
tickled that I don’t believe you would think of a 
pauper for a week. But then, dear, the difficulty 
is that he never would ask you. Such an idea 
would never enter his head. In the first place, ma 
cherie , you are whopper-jawed (which, of course, 
is your misfortune, not your fault; but men do not 
always make such subtle discriminations) ; and, sec¬ 
ondly, you never say anything when people do 
talk to you, — a circumstance which proceeds, / 
know, from great depth of character, but the world 
might be wicked enough, my Millicent, to call you 
a trifle dull.” 

I said, of course, nothing of the sort. I only 
thought these things in my naughty little heart. 
What I did say was something quite different, some 
airy, volatile speech which made light of her scru¬ 
ples, and doubtless made her think to herself what 
a frivolous, soulless thing that Alice Palmer is ! 

I have no desire to defend myself. All that I 
say is, would she, or any of the rest of them who 
sniffed at me and styled me a heartless worldling, 
have acted any differently if they had been in my 


166 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

place, and had my advantages? I should like to 
see how any one of them would have behaved if, 
whenever she entered a ball-room or any place where 
people were congregated, she had heard on all 
sides suppressed whispers of “ Is n’t she a lovely 
creature? ” and met glances of undisguised admira¬ 
tion in every eye. I knew what it was to be feted 
and idolized and caressed. I knew what it was to 
have man fall down and worship me in spite of 
himself. I knew what it was to be the darling of 
society, and to feel that whatever I said or did, 
almost my very thoughts, sent an electric thrill 
through the little Cosmos which revolved about 
me. Did they ? Were my experiences, my temp¬ 
tations, theirs? Could they, if they had desired it, 
have drunk out of the same cup as I and the little 
coterie who shared with me the idolatry of the 
world of fashion? Far from it. When plain, 
healthy-looking Marion Furbush, attired in her 
snowy swan’s-down cloak and nubia, which ought 
to set off a girl’s face to advantage if anything can, 
swept into Delmonico’s after the theatre, men 
would murmur to their neighbors, “ A buxom lass, 
n’est-ce-pas? ” and resume their suppers. There 
was no danger of her head being turned, poor 
child! She had no cause to dread the fatal snare 
of beauty to which she confided to Grace Irving 


MY SECOND SEASON. 167 

she had prayed to Heaven that I might not fall a 
victim. 

Dear, good Marion Furbush! When I weigh 
myself in the scale with you, how great, alas, was 
my deficiency! You were a much better girl than 
I ever thought of being. I was, I suppose, a 
giddy, wild, ruthless little flirt; you an affectionate, 
painstaking, dutiful daughter, an amiable, serious- 
minded, philanthropic woman. But tell me, Marion, 
frankly, did you ever know the exquisite delight of 
being told that you were very beautiful? Did any 
one, except that dyspeptic-looking little youth who 
won your heart and induced you to share his pot¬ 
tage for life, ever tell you that he adored you? Did 
you ever experience the rapturous charm of having 
two or three men looking into your eyes at the 
same time, with the fire of burning love in their 
own? I can answer for you, Marion. You never did. 
But with naughty, frivolous me it was different, oh, 
so different! I could have married any one of ten 
men, — ten men, only think. I had such a time as 
you never dreamt of, my Puss, even in your wildest 
imaginings. That second winter was one long tri¬ 
umph, one brilliant spell of homage, as foreign to 
your life as your homely virtues were to mine. 
And yet do you believe away down in your heart 
of hearts, Marion, that if you had been in my place 


168 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRT,. 


you, even you, would have acted one whit better? 
Between ourselves, as it was, would n’t you at times 
have liked to taste, did not you burn to taste, a lit¬ 
tle of the nectar that the gods had bestowed upon 
me, just a few drops? Is not a portion of your 
saintly integrity the result of the circumstance that 
wicked man austerely let you alone? 

You look grave, Marion; your sweet face is full 
of sad reproach; you point to your husband as if 
to imply that my last words at least embodied an 
untruth. I know, — I know, my Marion, but none 
of my ten slaves was dyspeptic, — not one of them. 
But let us change the subject. I acknowledge that 
I was a frivolous, volatile, giddy thing. 

But it was not the conscientious strictures of such 
unpretentious girls as Marion Furbushthat rankled 
in my bosom. What was hard to bear were the 
envenomed remarks of quasi beautiful contempo¬ 
raries who had tried to imitate me and failed, of 
girls who would fain have been belles themselves, 
had they but been able to strike the key-note of 
social approbation. There was nothing too bad 
for them to say about me. They would not allow 
that I had a single redeeming quality. They de¬ 
clared that—but no matter what they declared. 
I will not lower myself by detailing the pettinesses 
of which my sex is capable where jealousy is the 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


169 

spur. My revenge was sweet enough, Heaven 
knows, without descending to their weapons. Let 
it suffice me that even if they had railed until 
doomsday they could not have belittled my tri¬ 
umph one jot, could not have wiped out the one 
indisputable bitter fact that I had had a better time 
than they. 

And, oh, I did have a good time, a gorgeous 
time! It was a so much more agreeable sensa¬ 
tion to feel mistress of the situation, so to speak, 
and no longer an inexperienced fledgling; to feel 
that I knew exactly what to say and do and in what 
spirit to understand the words and actions of others. 
All the little society dodges and devices, “ the 
quips and cranks and wanton wiles,” of the world 
of fashion, which but a year ago had seemed to me 
almost unattainable, became me now as naturally 
as the glove fits the hand. It was pleasant to be 
an adept, to know that I had hold of the reins and 
was giving bias to the chariot’s course, instead of 
tamely sitting on the back seat and letting others 
do the driving. When amid the shrubbery of dimly 
lighted conservatories, fascinating monsters whis¬ 
pered words of honeyed wisdom in my ears, there 
was cause for exquisite felicitation in the conscious¬ 
ness that I was no longer a timid hare among 
ravening wolves. 


170 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

As to the particulars of my life during this second 
winter I scarcely know what to say. To enter in 
detail into all the ramifications of my various affaires 
du coeur would weary your patience and tax my 
memory. Much as I saw of the other sex, and 
flattering to my pride as was the fact that before 
Lent any one of five men would on the slightest 
encouragement from me have said the sweetest 
words a girl can hear, my heart remained imper¬ 
vious to the shafts from Cupid’s bow. I saw, without 
a qualm, the girls one by one drop from the ranks, 
and seek a haven in the arms of their adorers. I 
stood beside the altar with Maud Van Amburgh, 
and heard her promise to love, cherish, and obey 
Chicky Chalmers without the slightest emotion save 
joy that it was not I instead of her. 

It had been Mamma’s pet desire, as I have al¬ 
ready stated, that I should marry Gerald Pumy- 
stone. Of all my admirers he was undoubtedly the 
most unexceptionable from a worldly point of view, 
and his assiduous devotions left now no room for 
doubting the seriousness of his intentions. Con¬ 
tact with the world had done much towards correct¬ 
ing the extravagance of his manners and taking 
the edge off his conceit, and almost against my will 
I found myself forced to confess that if I were going 
in purely for a mariage de convenance it would be 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


I/I 

difficult to find a husband who combined so many 
advantages. 

This view of the case necessarily obtruded itself 
upon me quite often, owing to the fact that it was 
the current impression in town that I was engaged to 
him. I was congratulated as his fiancee on. numerous 
occasions, and people always shook their heads 
knowingly when informed by my family or friends 
that the report had no foundation. I do not think, 
however, that Mamma contradicted the story in the 
same downright way as she would have done had 
it not been dear to her heart, and had she not 
thought that it would some day be true. I know 
that she had a habit, when buttonholed on the 
subject, of smiling mysteriously and saying, “ I know 
nothing about it; don’t ask me,” which left the 
interrogator convinced that I had agreed to become 
Mrs. Pumystone. 

And in the balance with his garish devotion I 
had also to weigh the unremitting fidelity of Mr. 
Hill, who never, since that day when I made him 
so unhappy, had allowed me for one moment to 
doubt that his heart was still mine. His consider¬ 
ate, respectful friendship — for it was under the 
guise of friendship that we now interchanged ideas 
— had touched me so much by its complete sin¬ 
cerity that I had little by little come to feel an 


172 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

interest in his welfare closely akin to sisterly affec¬ 
tion ; and if any one had suggested six months 
before that my heart would ever beat an atom 
faster at the name of Murray Hill, I should have 
regarded the soothsayer as daft. Do not imagine, 
because I make this little confession, that I felt for 
him anything more than deep respect for his 
character and intellect, and a desire that he should 
do well in the world. It was only natural, consider¬ 
ing his kindness to me, and that he always seemed 
to have me in his thoughts, and was forever doing 
little things with a view to pleasing me, that I 
should reward his constancy with my genuine regard, 
if he was willing to accept that in lieu of love. Be¬ 
sides, I had grown imperceptibly to look upon him 
somewhat in the light of a guardian angel, or rather 
to feel that when talking to him I was under the 
influence of a man who amounted to something, and 
who had some ideas apart from the conventional frip¬ 
pery of my average worshipper. In his society I 
sometimes felt that life was stupid, but never that 
it was hollow and sawdusty. I knew that he was 
in earnest, I could see that everything he did was 
the fruit of serious thought tempered by princi¬ 
ple, and though I often failed to sympathize with 
his views because I deemed them uninteresting, I 
had come, in spite of myself, to respect, admire, and 
even in a Platonic sense to love him. 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


173 


Winter glided into spring, and the zephyrs of 
May found me making plans for the summer. I 
had heard from so many girls that you could have 
a perfectly killing time at Mt. Desert, that I was 
anxious to see for myself what the place was really 
like. So, by dint of teasing, I had persuaded Mrs. 
Gunn to agree to go down there for the month 
of July, and matronize me and her sister Peepy 
Marshmellow. 

Our matron was not very enthusiastic on the 
subject, in fact, had strongly objected to giving up 
the luxuries of Newport, even for so short a time. 
“Take my word for it, my dear,” said she, “ Mt. 
Desert is plebeian to the core. On dit that all the 
men there go about in flannel shirts, and the girls 
never do their hair. One has to eat all sorts 
of horrid things, and climb down precipices for 
amusement. Fancy me climbing down a precipice 
with a young man in a flannel shirt. There’s 
romance for you. If now they did the thing up 
brown, and wore rings through their noses, and 
tattooed themselves, there might be some amuse¬ 
ment in it. It would be original, at least. But I 
have no patience with this attempt to blend the 
heathen savage with the man of culture. As the 
Hon. Hare Hare says, it is bad form.” 

“But, Birdie,” protested her sister, “every one 


174 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

says that it is awfully good fun. The scenery is 
perfectly splendid, and you take long walks and 
drives, and all that sort of thing, you know. Be¬ 
sides, you must see people in such a pleasant way. 
It would n’t be necessary for you to climb if you 
did n’t want to, and at a pinch, I dare say, we 
could even get up a hop for you.” 

“ A hop, my child? ” replied Mrs. Gunn. “ Heaven 
knows it is not the absence of hops that I depre¬ 
cate. I should only be too grateful for the rest. 
What I object to is this absurd mania for run¬ 
ning about in old clothes, and making a guy of 
yourself in order to satisfy some notion as to its 
being more informal. I hate old clothes, and that 
word informal -is one of the deadliest foes to 
higher civilization. It is only a synonyme for free- 
and-easy. I know what it signifies perfectly well. 
I was once informal, myself, delightfully informal. 
It means treating a man just like another girl, and 
treating a girl just like another man. It is n’t 
natural. God never intended that the two sexes 
should gad about together like peas in a pod. 
That is what they do at Mt. Desert.” 

“Would you have them, my dear, bury them¬ 
selves like oysters in their individual shells?” 
queried the pertinacious Peepy. 

“You know that I am no prude,” responded her 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


175 


sister, “ and no one has ever accused me before 
of lacking enterprise. In fact, I take rank among 
my peers as the embodiment of flippancy. I be¬ 
lieve with all my heart in playing the butterfly; 
but then please remember, mes enfants , that the 
butterfly, with all its faults, is a fastidious creature. 
It can boast refinement as well as grace. Its most 
salient charm is the fascinating trick that it has of 
flitting about from flower to flower without allow¬ 
ing itself to be caught. It never lets itself be 
examined too closely. It pauses by the wayside 
just long enough to fetter the gazer’s eye, and 
then is off again. Ca sent le mystire. If it chances 
to fall into evil hands, and gets the dust or pollen, 
or whatever it is called, rubbed off its wings, the 
poor insect never looks the same afterwards. It 
has a cheap, dingy appearance for the future, and 
the critical votary of science turns up his nose 
at it. 

“ Now that is what happens, metaphorically 
speaking, at Mt. Desert. The average girl who 
goes there gets the pollen rubbed off her wings. 
She ceases to be content to captivate at a distance. 
Lured by the flattering snare of becoming intimate 
with or exerting influence over the other sex, she 
suffers herself to be made a boon companion of. 
Instead of remaining a bewitching enigma she 


176 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

betrays to the masculine eye, to assimilate her to 
the insect aforesaid, the size of her head, the color 
of her spots, and the number of her stripes. The 
delightful gauze of mystery no longer enshrouds 
her. That plausible youth in the flannel shirt and 
knickerbockers, who, week in, week out, from dawn 
to dewy eve, has dogged her footsteps, has probed 
the secrets of her heart, and knows exactly what 
she thinks on every subject. 

“ How delightful, you say. Yes, my dears, for 
him. I agree with you, he is a very enviable man. 
But for her — there I beg to differ. I fail to appre¬ 
ciate the advantages of being mentally palmed 
over, even by a youth in a flannel shirt. But you 
shall try it for yourselves. I am the most good- 
natured person in the world. I have given my 
word, and you shall try it for yourselves.” 

And so we did. One afternoon, some six weeks 
later, we steamed out of Boston harbor en route for 
Mt. Desert. With arms resting on the steamer’s 
rail, I sat looking out over the peaceful bay, lost 
in the train of dreamy melancholy that such sur¬ 
roundings are apt to induce. I was thinking of I 
scarcely know what, — of my past life, of my hopes 
for the future, of what a strange place this world 
is, — and revolving the thousand and one fancies that 
people an idle brain. Of a sudden I heard a voice 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


177 


at my side say, “ How do you do, Miss Palmer?” 
and, turning to meet it, I found myself confronting 
a tall, slender young man, whose identity was al¬ 
most shrouded in a long, light-colored ulster, and 
round smoking-cap of kindred material. 

“ Why, Mr. Brooke! ” I exclaimed, in genuine 
surprise. “ How funny that we should meet after 
all! Are you really going to Mt. Desert? ” 

“ That is my present intention, Miss Palmer, 
unless you succeed in persuading me to alter my 
plans.” 

I have omitted to state that among my other 
diversions of this winter had been a flying trip to 
Boston. It had been literally that, a flying trip. 
I had left New York on Monday morning, and re¬ 
turned home the following Saturday, so that I only 
had time to shake hands with a lot of nice people 
and repack my trunks. Everybody there was 
awfully kind to me. I was loaded with attention, 
and would have given worlds to have stayed 
longer. But there was no help for it. I had 
promised to be back in time for Grace Irving’s 
dinner, which I would not have missed for any¬ 
thing. 

With the majority of the people whom I met, 
as I have said, I merely exchanged a few words; 
but I must make an exception in the case of one 


12 


178 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

young man, — the one referred to above, of course, 
— whose devotion to me had been most flattering. 
For some reason or other he had seemed to take a 
great fancy to me, and as he was hand and glove 
with the nicest people, had been able to add im¬ 
mensely to my enjoyment by tipping the wink to 
attractive men, as Peepy Marshmellow expressed 
it, that I was worthy of cultivation. He never 
took his eyes off me for a moment, if he could 
help it, during my visit, and on the* day of my 
departure for New York, appeared at the depot 
with some of the loveliest roses I ever saw, which 
he begged me to do him the favor of accepting. 
In the few moments left before the ringing of the 
last bell, we had mutually expressed our desire 
and hope of meeting again. 

“ Do you ever go to Mt. Desert in summer?” 
he had asked. 

“ I never have, but I am crazy to go.” 

“ I trust we may meet there this year, Miss 
Palmer.” 

“ I trust so too, Mr. Brooke,” had been my last 
words, as, warned by the ominous voice of the 
conductor, he backed his polite way out of the 
Pullman. 

And now, curiously enough, our prayers — if 
prayers be not too strong a term — had been an- 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


179 


swered, and here we were together again on the 
deck of the Mt. Desert steamer. Providence, thy 
ways are inscrutable, and we cannot understand 
them! Mr. Brooke told me, three weeks later, 
it was fate that brought us together. I should like 
ever so much to know whether destiny did have 
anything to do with it, or whether it was simply 
chance. I imagine that when he ascribed our 
meeting to fate he had more or less hopes of in¬ 
ducing me to live in Boston as a permanency, 
which may, of course, have colored his views. 
Poor fellow! If it was anything more than an 
accident, he must have been born under an unlucky 
star. 

I have never seen him since we left Mt. Desert, 
but I have often thought about him. What a 
good time we had, and how thoughtful and atten¬ 
tive and kind he was during our stay there! It 
was a totally novel experience to me. With all 
my knowledge of the ways of men, flirtation 
with Mr. Brooke was like exploring an unknown 
country. He was so unlike a New-Yorker. It 
took, to begin with, so much more time to develop 
him. I found him at first secretive and undemon¬ 
strative as an owl. He was extremely polite, and 
was forever running after me, but in conversation 
I always got just so far and no farther, for at least 


l 80 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


ten days subsequent to our arrival at Mt. Desert. 
The average New-Yorker, considering the oppor¬ 
tunities, would have proposed, been refused, and 
have almost become convalescent within that time. 
After a while I admit that he began to enthuse a 
little, to use an Americanism, but it was always 
about things, not about me. I should never have 
known from his manner that he cared a straw for 
me. Even when we grew more intimate, and he 
confided to me all his secrets and feelings and 
ideas, I often felt like shaking him because of his 
quiet, unemotional way of expressing himself. 

On returning one evening from a tete-a-tete with 
him on the water, during which, notwithstanding 
we had a full moon and a little skiff all to our¬ 
selves, he had been as indifferent in manner as if 
it had been broad daylight, I remember inquiring 
of Mrs. Gunn if she had noticed how dissimilar 
Mr. Brooke was to New-Yorkers. 

“ Why, my dear child,” she replied, “ they are 
totally different kinds of fish. The typical New- 
Yorker will rise in all kinds of weather and to 
almost any fly, no matter how showy. He has no 
objection to splash, and tinsel does not frighten 
him off. The danger comes when he begins to 
feel the hook — and I agree that you can never 
feel sure of him until he is landed; for even when 


MY SECOND SEASON. l8l 

you have him on the bank at your feet, he will 
sometimes get away. But so far as rising is con¬ 
cerned, he will, as I have said, rise to anything . 

“ But a Boston trout is a shy, fastidious, capri¬ 
cious creature, and requires very different angling. 
Once hook him and you are all right. He dies 
like a lamb. A little wriggle of his tail, a feeble 
effort at a sulk, a half-hearted run down river, and 
it. is all over. You can reel him in then at your 
pleasure. The difficulty lies in the hooking , and 
the worst of it is that you can never be sure what 
kind of fly will tempt him. If he happens to see 
one that he thoroughly fancies, and which is cast 
with sufficient skill to blind him to the fact that it 
conceals a hook, he will take it like a shot. But 
it is almost impossible to know beforehand what 
will get a rise out of him. His aristocratic nose 
turns up at morsels which a New-Yorker would 
snap up in the twinkling of an eye. Sometimes it 
is your sensible-looking, dull-hued fly that kills 
him. Oftener, perhaps, a modest, unpretentious 
fly, or even a dowdy fly with a big head, will give 
him the coup de grace. Once in a while a taste¬ 
fully gaudy fly or a graceful trig-looking little 
charmer does the business. 

“ The thing to avoid is all splash and noise. Any¬ 
thing loud is fatal, my dear, in nine cases out of 


182 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


ten. If you let him see ever so slightly that you 
would like to catch him you are done for. No, 
vton enfant y these thoroughbred Boston fellows, 
even when they are tolerably fascinated, are terrible 
nibblers. They swim round and round the fly, 
and sometimes let it be carried off from under 
their very noses, because they can’t quite make up 
their minds. They want to examine the bait from 
every standpoint. Fortunately, they are just as 
liable to be fooled as other fish if you give them 
time, but you must let them alone and not scare 
them. 

“ Take my sister Peepy, for instance. She would 
go down delightfully in some waters. She could 
lead big fish of a certain type a terrible rig. But 
a fastidious fish like Ernest Brooke would not 
look at her for a minute. If he chanced to see 
her floating on the stream, he would probably give 
her a cursory glance, and then, with a whisk of his 
little tail, go to the bottom, and never so much as 
wink at her for the future. It has often been my 
lot to be on capital fishing-grounds, where a half- 
dozen of these Boston fellows were lying lazily 
against the bottom with a bevy of garish flies 
dangling over their noses. All we could ever get 
out of them — I say ‘we/ because I was once a 
garish fly myself—would be a wicked cock of the 


MY SECOND SEASON. 183 

eye, as if to say, ‘We are n’t so green as we look, 
my dears, — we are n’t so green as we look ! ’ 

“ Now in your case, Alice, it is very different. 
You have evidently succeeded in charming Mr. 
Brooke. I have admired from afar your con¬ 
summate tact, and some day, love, he will take the 
hook with a vengeance and reward your labors.” 

“But what if I don’t wish to hook him, Mrs. 
Gunn?”. 

“Wish to hook him? Why, my child, it would 
be simple idiocy not to hook him. Of* course you 
would shake him off again after a while; but it 
would be a crying shame that, after having given 
you so much trouble, he should not be made to 
feel the barb.” 

This piscatorial conversation took place at a 
time when Mr. Brooke and I were still com¬ 
paratively strangers. Afterwards I suppose that 
without exactly meaning to I did hook him and 
then shake him off again. There was no help for 
it; I did not care to pass my days in Boston, and, 
somehow or other, one does not feel at Mt. Desert 
that there is any particular harm in having a little 
fun. Perhaps the atmosphere of the place is to 
blame, but I know, at all events, that in trying to 
make him like me I experienced much fewer 
qualms than I should have at a more conventional 
resort. 


184 the confessions of a frivolous girl. 

I look back upon those six weeks at Mt. Desert 
in the light of a charming idyl. If I am ever 
blessed with a daughter, I have my doubts as to 
whether I shall allow her to go down there; but 
there is no denying the exquisite fascination of the 
spot. The stern bluff coast walled by giant crags, 
with the cruel ocean churning against their bases; 
the clear rare air that filled our weary lungs with 
a new life, and whispered to the timid maiden, 

“ Be bold, be bold, and everywhere be bold,” — 

when shall I cease to recall them with delight? 
The ever-varying inland range of hill and hollow, 
the blissful walks, the lengthy drives, the little 
harbor where we loved to float on peaceful nights 
beneath the silver moon, the icy fogs that chilled 
our very marrow, even the hunger that we shared 
together, — when will they be forgot? 

Only fancy starting off in the morning with 
some chosen spirit, and wandering at the dictates 
of your own sweet will, until weary limbs warned 
you that to sketch together or to hear him read 
his favorite verses would be pleasanter than walk¬ 
ing farther. And then what joy to fling one’s self 
upon some fair hillside, where you could watch the 
blue sea sparkling in the distance, while, as in days 
of old, the gentle swain fingered the pipe or mur- 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


i8 5 


mured dreamy tales of love at your feet! Or, 
again, was it not soothing to the skipping spirit to 
lie at ease at night, in the stern of some skiff, 

wrapped in a heavy rug to satisfy your nervous 

matron, and suffer a faithful slave to paddle you 
lightly o’er the tranquil water? What girl would 
not think it fun? Did the woman ever live who 
could see no pleasure in it? 

And did I, in the process, lose the lustre from 

my wings? I hardly know. Perhaps I did a lit¬ 

tle. I was very careful, T was extremely cautious, 
I did not become a regular Philistine, after the 
style of Peepy Marshmellow and others, but I sup¬ 
pose that I was just a little free-and-easy with 
Ernest Brooke and one other young man who was 
kind to me when the former was not around. I 
did not intend to. I remembered Mrs. Gunn’s 
warning, and tried to be dignified and statuesque 
as possible, yet there were moments, I fear, when 
my animal spirits got the better of my discretion. 

As for Peepy Marshmellow and some of the 
other girls, they were wild as hawks. They drove 
or picnicked or rowed or sailed or gadded with 
something in trousers the livelong day. Peepy 
managed to infatuate — I imagine it was a large 
shade hat cocked on one side of her head, and 
girt with a bandanna handkerchief that dealt the 


86 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


wound — a youth from Boston whose sensibilities 
were less easily offended than Mr. Brooke’s, and 
the way these two carried on was, as the lady’s 
sister forcibly expressed it, “ a caution to snakes.” 
Compared with their conduct, mine was simply 
angelic. Even Mrs. Gunn descended at times 
from her high horse, and allowed her convention¬ 
alities to vanish before the Bohemian graces of a 
young New York artist, fresh from the studios of 
Paris. “ My child,” said she to me one evening, 
“ my pride has had a fall. We sat by the sea 
to-day. He read aloud to me ‘ La Nuit de Mai,’ 
in a red flannel shirt and knickerbockers, and I 
never even quivered. What would Stylington 
Ribblehurst say?” 

Poor Mr. Brooke! I have used that expression 
in regard to so many young men, that I shall be 
liable to convey the impression that I was a heart¬ 
less flirt. But such was not the case. My experi¬ 
ence with Ernest Brooke was merely an episode, 
an idyl, — simply a digression from the beaten 
track of life, not intended to result in anything 
permanent. We both went into it in that spirit. 
We understood it perfectly; at least, I certainly 
did; and if he allowed himself to look upon our 
relation in any other light, it was his own fault. 
He ought to have known better. I was able now 


MY SECOND SEASON. 


IS/ 


to understand and even sympathize with the girl 
whose conduct under analogous circumstances, as 
related to me by Manhattan Blake, had seemed so 
inhuman. 

Mr. Brooke reminded me in many ways of Mr. 
Blake. He was not so morbid and sensitive as 
the latter, but his tastes ran in a similar channel. 
He had the same yearning for an ideal existence, 
the same fondness for discussing plans and theories 
of living. He was a cotton-broker when at home, 
and belonged, as I have previously hinted, to one 
of Boston’s oldest families. This was his vacation. 

We became, in a certain sense, perfectly insep¬ 
arable. Towards the end he must have told me 
everything about himself that he was at liberty to 
tell to anybody, and I gave myself away, as the 
phrase is, time and time again. What topic of inter¬ 
est did we not agitate? I used to sit beside him on 
the rocks, and read aloud some one of the attractive 
volumes of light literature that he had brought 
down with him, while he took sketches in water- 
color of the surrounding scenery. He had a good 
deal of cleverness with his brush, and I have to-day 
among my effects one of several charming little 
portraits that he made of me. I wonder if he has 
the others still. 

An idyl. Yes, it was a summer idyl, nothing 


188 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

more. We read together “ Silas Marner,” and 
Austin Dobson’s “ Vignettes in Rhyme,” and 
Ruskin’s “ Sesame and Lilies,” and “ The Monks 
of Thelema,” and Carlyle’s “ Sartor Resartus.” 
We analyzed such problems as these, — I made a 
little list of them in my diary at the time, and 
here are some of them: — 

1. If it was necessary to choose between the two, 
would it be nobler to marry a person who came up 
to your ideal in other respects, but failed to fire 
your fancy, or a person who fired your fancy but 
failed to come up to your ideal? 

2. Is it more ideal in a man who has been hope¬ 
lessly unsuccessful in an affaire da coeur to live 
his life alone to the end or to try to find some 
other mate? 

3. Would you rather love or be loved? (The 
same old problem that I discussed with Mr. Blake.) 

4. If a man and a girl love one another, and, 
owing to pecuniary difficulties, there is no chance 
of their being able to marry, is it more conducive 
to the happiness of the girl that they should be 
engaged openly or engaged secretly? 

5 ( a ). If a man is dead in love with a girl, but 
has no money, and has every reason to think that 
the girl, who has plenty of money for both (or 
whose father has), is in love with him, is it false 


MY SECOND SEASON. 189 

pride to refrain on account of his poverty from 
asking her to marry him? 

(£.) In such a case, even if his pride should 
suffer thereby, ought he not to sacrifice his indi¬ 
vidual feelings to the happiness of the girl and ask 
her? 

6. Do girls usually refuse men the first time they 
ask them? 

Such was our life. But everything pleasant 
must have an ending. Six weeks are not an 
eternity, and the time came at last for me to bid 
good-by to this pastoral existence. Some three 
days before my departure, Mr. Brooke and I had 
a little scene, the particulars of which formed the 
only painful portion of this fleeting romance. 
How pleasant it was! — I mean the romance, the 
idyl. He was a charming fellow, and I shall never 
think of him but with the kindest feelings. About 
six months after our parting I heard of his engage¬ 
ment to a Boston girl, who, he had confided to 
me out rowing one gorgeous night, was his ideal 
morally and intellectually, but who, he said, had 
never, as I had done, kindled the divine spark 
within his breast. What a domestic rumpus I 
might make if I were a malevolent being! 

Even Mrs. Gunn felt a pang at leaving dear 
Mt. Desert. Fond as she was of the convention- 


190 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

alities of the higher civilization, as she termed it, 
it grieved her to part from her artist friend. “ Let 
them say what they will, girls,” said she, as we sat 
mournfully together in the stern of the steamer, 
gazing back at the receding shores; “ it is vulgar, 
perhaps, but it is liberty. We return to chains 
and slavery.” 



V. 

SETTLING DOWN. 

"V^^E returned to Newport in time to take part 
in the final festivities of the season. There 
were still two weeks remaining in which Mrs. Gunn 
could charm the public eye with her darling duds 
of ponies and faultless phaeton, ere the votaries 
of fashion scattered to their winter homes. De¬ 
spite my being open to the charge of having 
revealed to the Philistines the size of my head and 
the number of my spots, society welcomed me 
back with open arms, and my quondam admirers 
flocked anew to the re-established shrine. 

The same old story. Did it pall a little? No, 
I think not. To be sure, the life had for me no 
longer the charm of novelty, but in the enjoyment 
of its dash and whirl and joyousness and color, I 
still experienced a delight closely akin to the 
delirium of my past. 
























192 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

It matters not to describe in detail the tag end 
of that second season. No denouement occurred 
to interrupt the gay tenor of my days. I found 
the same familiar friends, the same ardent admir¬ 
ers. I took part in the same pastimes and dissi¬ 
pations. I was ever conscious that I had but to 
give a sign to entitle me to a seat for life on Gerald 
Pumystone’s drag. I knew that one little word 
would make me mistress of the house of Hare, or 
bring to my feet Murray Hill, now spending his 
hard-earned vacation in cruising among the fogs 
of Maine in vain pursuit of me. All this I knew, 
and yet my bosom stirred not. That these men 
loved me was no fresh discovery. Their protes¬ 
tations had become now twice-told ancient tales, 
that, feebly simmering in my breast, made me 
smile and sigh, and sigh and smile again, but yet I 
gave no sign. What could I do? Nothing. There 
was nothing to be done but let things take their 
course. To marry some one whom I did not love 
with all my heart would be dreadful, perfectly 
dreadful. But would not perpetual spinsterhood 
be ghastlier still? Thus beset by grave doubts 
and mistrustful even of myself, I drifted on and 
wondered what the end would be. 

The end! It came at last, that end, or rather, 
when I think of my happy home and dear hus- 


SETTLING DOWN. 


193 


band and sweet little baby, I ought to say begin¬ 
ning. How it came about I scarcely know. What 
a curious creature a girl is! She delights in 
springing traps upon herself. She goes to bed 
fully convinced that she is one thing, and wakes 
up the next morning to find herself something 
totally different. So duplex is she that what she 
has flattered herself to be well-matured plans 
crumble to pieces in a moment before the breath 
of little undercurrents of thought. Men never 
know how near we women come to not doing the 
things we do and to doing the things we do not 
do. I love my husband with all my heart, Heaven 
knows. He is my pride, my glory, my strength, 
and when his arms are about me I feel happy 
enough to die. But he would tremble to know how 
near I came to not marrying him. 

An attack of the dumps succeeded my return to 
New York, as had been the case the previous 
autumn. I have sometimes thought that had it 
been possible to be wildly gay all the year round, 
I might never have been married, but have danced 
through the usual mating-time of girls into a color¬ 
less middle age. The breathing-spells of autumn 
and spring that follow upon the gayeties of the 
summer and winter are trying days for a child of 
fashion. They not only dampen her spirits, but 


194 THE confessions of a frivolous girl. 


lay bare the approaches to her heart as well. 
Self-introspection under certain circumstances is a 
dangerous game. To sit quietly at home and win¬ 
now your experience is a sorry substitute for being 
idolized, and even when propped up by literature, 
philanthropy, and kindred devices, a worldly crea¬ 
ture such as I was then is apt to get a trifle bored 
in the process. And when a girl is bored with her¬ 
self, then, O man, is the hour of your advantage. 

I suppose, also, it is tolerably indisputable that 
a girl not absolutely regenerate is much more apt 
to be a prey to little whisperings of conscience 
when deprived of the tonic of bewildering excite¬ 
ment. The music no longer drowns the monitions 
of the still small voice, that suggests all sorts of 
horrible ideas in the line of wasted golden oppor¬ 
tunities of life. 

Some such experience was mine. The attack 
of the dumps that capped the climax to my sum¬ 
mer’s dissipations was a severe one, as my diary 
shall once more testify. 

November 3. 

I am growing old. Yes, I feel that I am grow¬ 
ing old. I am falling into the sear and yellow 
leaf. My third winter, only think ! When I hear 
those little chits, Posie Van Amburgh and Dora 
Davis, whom I have been in the habit of associ- 


SETTLING DOWN. 


195 


ating in my mind with children in arms and per¬ 
ambulators, talking about the raving time that 
they are going to have this winter, I feel like a 
grandmother. Oh, I am sick of it all. What is the 
use of this everlasting party-going? What do I 
go for? Is it to see any one in particular? No, 
emphatically no. I go simply because I have got 
into the habit of going and because everybody else 
does. I am an automaton, a machine. I can tell 
beforehand exactly who will speak to me, arid what 
he will talk about, and what I shall say in reply. 
Take any man you please, and I know to a certainty 
what will be the subject of our conversation. It will 
vary with different individuals, to be sure; but with 
Gerald Pumystone, for instance, it will inevitably be 
a resume of the fashionable intelligence of the week 
garnished with badinage; with Jimmy Noble, a 
summary of his professional hopes for the future; 
with Willy Easton, a scientific discussion; with 
“ Poodle ” Van Ulster, a chit-chat on art, and so on 
all through the list. They each remind me of a 
musical box with only one tune. I like them all 
collectively, but individually they oppress me. 

I recognize that, socially speaking, I am fast be¬ 
coming an old woman. I shall be just tolerated 
this winter, and another season will see me on 
the shelf. I am beginning to discern what look 


196 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

like little crow’s-feet round my eyes, and the peach- 
bloom is fading from my cheeks. The respect 
and veneration with which I am treated by the 
“buds” is more galling to me than wormwood. 
But what on earth am I to do if I don’t go to par¬ 
ties? Some of the girls talk about having so many 
resources. I have not got any resources. I have 
tried to go wild over all sorts of things. I have 
dabbled in literature and languages and history 
and charity, and taken painting lessons, and cooked 
a little, and gone straight through the list of avo¬ 
cations open to girls, to see if I could not discover 
a taste for something. I can’t. It is useless. I 
have not a taste of any kind in the true sense of 
the word. Of course I take more or less pleasure 
in my literature and charity, and the cooking-school 
was rather amusing at first. The fact that you are 
deliberately trying to improve yourself casts a 
certain negative glamour over such pursuits, and 
makes you think that you are tremendously inter¬ 
ested in them even when you know that you are 
not. But I am sick of them. The idea of com¬ 
paring them for a moment for real pleasure with 
the enjoyment you derive from parties seems to me 
like rank hypocrisy. I have been indulging long 
enough in the flattering delusion that I adore the 
tranquil delights of knowledge. I suppose it is an 


SETTLING DOWN. 


197 


awful thing to say, but I really believe that I hate 
them. Of course I don’t mean that I object to books 
at the right time, but what I like is people. Books 
are all very well, but when any girl tells me she 
prefers reading a book to talking to a man I al¬ 
ways set her down as mendacious or else a little 
simple. 

It is a frightful confession to make. What 
would men think if they really knew that the mass 
of girls prefer talking to them to anything else in the 
world! We all squirm at the thought of own¬ 
ing it to ourselves, but isn’t it so? With all my 
advantages I sometimes feel that it was what is 
called tough luck to have been born a girl. A 
man has a so much wider field for his wits to 
wander in. He adores our sex, I know. He calls 
us dear little things, and chucks us under the chin. 
He becomes dreadfully unhappy if we do not 
do what he wants us to. We are a superior 
species of toy. He makes pets of us, vows to 
love and cherish us, and so he does. He loves us 
very much, but then, alas! he loves all sorts of 
things besides girls. He does not love the other 
things perhaps quite so much as he loves us, but 
there is no use in denying the gloomy fact that 
we are only one item in his existence, and that 
he is the sum and substance of ours. 


198 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

Of course I do not really wish that I was a man, 
but is n’t it almost humiliating to feel that while he 
is learning to be of use in the world, we girls are, 
so to speak, on exhibition? It is rather a homely 
way of stating it, but it is undeniably the truth 
that from the age of eighteen until she is either mar¬ 
ried or shelved a girl is on exhibition. Our Mam¬ 
mas try to disguise the fact by tickling our fancies 
with all sorts of kickshaws in the shape of dresses 
and parties and other delightful bait, but in spite of 
it all I feel in my heart of hearts that I at present 
am very pretty to look at, but horribly useless. 
I am a sort of Dresden shepherdess. It cost a mint 
of money to make me what I am, and yet all I am 
good for is ornament. A genuine Dresden shep¬ 
herdess could end her sufferings by smashing her¬ 
self; but if I should commit suicide it would be 
ascribed to blighted affections. Heigh-ho ! 

I am in the blues of course. I am aware that 
all this savors dreadfully of morbidness. I began 
this tirade by abusing parties, then I inveighed 
against the dulness that results from staying at 
home, and now I am abusing parties again. What 
am I to do? What is to be the end of it all? 
I suppose that I ought to get married. The other 
girls seem to get married, and Mamma says that I 
ought to. But if so, to whom? There is the rub, 


SETTLING DOWN. 


199 


as I have said over and over again. I do not love 
anybody, and I do not see that I am ever likely to. 
What a miserable girl lam! Is it absolutely neces¬ 
sary to love a man before you marry him ? I won¬ 
der if it really is. Oh, I am tired — tired — tired ! 
I cannot write any more to-night. I will go to 
bed. 

November 15. 

Mamma has been upbraiding me to-night for my 
coldness to Mr. Pumystone. She says that in 
refusing to encourage his suit I am flying in the 
face of Providence, and that it is very wrong for a 
girl on account of a few absurd scruples to let slip 
such an opportunity of being happy for life with 
an estimable young man. It seems to me that 
she begs the question. My absurd scruples, as 
she calls them, are that I do not love Mr. Pumy¬ 
stone. And such being the case I cannot see how 
she can feel so sure that I would be happy with 
him. 

Mamma declares that I owe it to my family to 
make an advantageous match. I grant that that 
is so in a certain sense, but I am not aware of hav¬ 
ing shown any disposition to do otherwise. If 
it was a question of throwing over Mr. Pumystone 
for some one from the gutter, there might be cause 
for complaint. But I have no such design. All 
I desire is to be let alone. 


200 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


Of course, if it was a matter of dire necessity, I 
could swallow him. We are both of us tolerably 
good-natured, and probably should not fight. If, 
for instance, as we read in novels, I could save my 
family from starvation by such a step, I would not 
hesitate a moment. But inasmuch as I was born 
in such a condition of life as to be able to marry 
purely with a view to my own happiness, I fail to 
see the force of Mamma’s logic. 

The doubt in my own mind is as to whether I 
am ever likely to care for any one in the ardent 
way I hear others describe. If I am never to 
reach that pitch, I might as well make hay while 
the sun shines and secure a comfortable establish¬ 
ment while I can. It nearly breaks my heart, 
however, to think of playing the iconoclast, and 
smashing the idols of my youth which I have 
clung to through thick and thin. Frivolous and 
worldly as I have been, I have ever secretly cher¬ 
ished the hope of experiencing some day that 
ecstatic feeling which, however overrated it may 
be, cannot be wholly mythical. The little feeble 
spark kindled in my breast during my contretemps 
with Manhattan Blake taught me that it is not all 
sham. But whether destiny has such bliss in store 
for me is a totally different question. 

It is awfully hard to decide. As Mrs. Gerald 


SETTLING DOWN. 


201 


Pumystone, I should be able to satisfy all my 
desires in a society way, and fondness for the gay 
world is certainly my ruling passion. Everything 
that makes life attractive in a worldly sense would 
be mine. I feel that it would not take a great deal of 
argument to persuade me to follow Mrs. Gunn’s 
advice, and merge myself forever in the great vortex 
of fashion. I realize that I am on the verge, but I 
still shrink, oh, I shrink from taking the plunge. 
Something, I don’t know what it is, but something 
tells me that I was made for better things than that. 
Even when I acknowledge to myself that I am no 
longer a silly sentimental girl, but a grown woman, 
and that romance is not, as I once supposed, the 
sole consideration in life, my conscience — if it be 
that I still have a conscience — whispers, “ Cling 
to your ideals. They are a woman’s guardian 
angels.” 

But as I have already said, time and time again, 
what is to be the result supposing I do cling to 
them? Does the prospect for the future dis¬ 
close any greater attractions than the present 
offers? Would living a single, solitary life in 
obedience to these lofty notions, which may possi¬ 
bly, after all, be illusory, make me happier than 
being very comfortable all my days with a highly 
respectable person for whom I have no partic- 


202 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


ular aversion? There is the whole question in a 
nutshell, and I am totally at a loss how to an¬ 
swer it. 

I am old enough, of course, to understand that 
mariages de convenance are very common even in 
this country. Quantities of girls in my situation 
have accepted much less endurable husbands than 
Gerald Pumystone, and lived happily. In France, — 
why, in France such scruples as mine would be in¬ 
comprehensible. Still America is not France, and 
with my associations I cannot help feeling a little 
that wedding to obtain an establishment implies a 
sacrifice of self-esteem. If I were a man I might 
settle the matter by tossing up a cent, I suppose. 
But, alas, I am only a girl, and lack initiative. 

These extracts from my impressions, as regis¬ 
tered at the time, indicate pretty clearly the vacil¬ 
lating condition of my mind during the stagnant 
weeks of that autumn. Looking back upon it all 
now, and being of course a better judge of the 
probabilities of the case than any one else can 
possibly be, I am bound to confess that it is my 
candid opinion that if nothing had happened to 
prevent my going out into society my third winter, 
I should have yielded to the voice of the tempter, 
and pleased Mamma by becoming Mrs. Gerald 


SETTLING DOWN. 


203 


Pumystone. I have very little doubt that such 
would have been the course of events. I do not 
see very well how I could have helped drifting 
into a fashionable married woman, unless of course 
(as is always within the range of possibilities) 
some one new and very charming had suddenly 
appeared upon the scene. The outside pressure 
brought to bear upon me was becoming more 
considerable every day, and the chances are, I 
rather think, ten to one, that another winter of gay- 
ety would have sealed the fate of my ideals. 

I frankly admit that, considering how happy I 
am now and the poetic nature of the theme, it is a 
very matter-of-fact statement to say that if the 
death of my aunt had not obliged me to tempora¬ 
rily renounce society I should undoubtedly have 
wedded another man. But such is the case. As 
I have already mentioned, I worship my husband’s 
very footsteps, and thank Heaven every day that 
things turned out as they did; but is n’t it strange 
— it is everybody’s lot, I know, but it comes home 
to a girl more closely when considered in connec¬ 
tion with the great event of her life — that such 
an apparently collateral circumstance should have 
worked so vital results? The fate of the majority of 
girls in a similar situation would have been to marry 
Mr. Pumystone. I owe it to a freak of destiny 


204 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

that I did not follow the natural tendencies of the 
victim of a gay career, and drift into a mariage de 
convenance . 

I married Murray Hill. I became the wife of 
the man at whom I have laughed so many times 
in these pages. Now do not imagine for one 
instant that I desire to escape from the consequen¬ 
ces that this confession involves. I am perfectly 
aware that I shall be called inconsistent, and I 
glory in the truth of the accusation. Let me an¬ 
ticipate the world's criticism by pleading guilty to 
the whole tissue of charges that will be heaped 
upon me. “ You made such dreadful remarks 
about him,” it will be said. “ You called him poky 
and uninteresting. You refused him, and proffered 
him a stone in the form of Platonic friendship 
when he sought for the bread of love. You treated 
Mrs. Gunn’s warning in connection with him, to 
beware of persevering men, with scornful incre¬ 
dulity, and drew that sarcastic little picture of con¬ 
nubial bliss in which you figured as a stocking- 
darner at his feet, looking forward to his smile as 
a pet animal to a lump of sugar.” Yes, I am per¬ 
fectly aware of it. I know it. It is all true. 
Taunt me as much as you please. I acknowledge 
everything, even to that nasty little fling I made 
about the dear fellow’s riding-straps. My sole 


SETTLING DOWN. 


205 


defence shall be that I changed my mind, — a 
woman’s privilege,— and that I love him. 

What worked the change, you will ask. As I 
have already stated, physically speaking, it was 
my aunt’s death, which rendered it necessary for 
me to forego all commerce with the gay world. 
From the moment that I relapsed into this en¬ 
forced quietude, my life became a gradual but 
steady march towards the altar. To begin with, I 
was extremely fond of my aunt. I felt her loss 
very keenly; and I think it was Mr. Hill’s sym¬ 
pathy and consideration during my affliction that 
first touched my heart in his favor. I could not 
help contrasting his refined methods of expressing 
his interest in my distress with Gerald Pumystone’s 
fleshly remark that it was an awful bore, I would 
not be able to go anywhere all winter. Little by 
little, almost without knowing it, I grew to look 
forward to Mr. Hill’s visits, and, strangely enough, 
to feel positive happiness in his presence. His 
strength of character, his earnestness and sweet¬ 
ness of life, had come to overshadow, almost to 
conceal, the little peculiarities and awkwardnesses 
of person and manner which I must confess that 
even to this day he has never entirely got the 
better of. We saw a great deal of each other dur¬ 
ing the winter. He lent me books, and tried to 


206 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


inspire me with an interest in serious things. So 
far as tangible results went I do not think that his 
efforts in that line were altogether successful. His 
real success lay in the capture of my heart. It is 
in a certain sense embarrassing, almost humiliating 
to have to own it, but I awoke one morning to 
find myself in love with Murray Hill. 

Perhaps it was because I had grown older. I 
have already suggested that being bored with my¬ 
self had something to do with it. I am ready to 
acknowledge almost anything as a cause. I do 
not even claim that my feeling for Mr. Hill when 
I accepted him was so absorbing a passion as 
I might have felt at an earlier stage under certain 
circumstances for somebody else, or as some of 
the other girls have felt before marriage for their 
future husbands. There was nothing platonic 
about it, but, on the other hand, it lacked the 
ecstatic frenzy which some declare essential to 
the genuine article. I loved him, I am sure of 
that. Not so much, of course, as I love him now 
(because I will not own any girl my superior 
in the love I bear my husband now), but it was 
nevertheless love. The transition from friendship 
to that state of mind was gradual, but none the 
less real. 

My passion for Mr. Hill was not of such an 


SETTLING DOWN. 


207 


overpowering nature, for instance, as to blind me to 
the fact that he had faults. In every-day parlance 
we regard it as an axiom that no one is wholly 
free from blemishes; but this, to the contrary not¬ 
withstanding, I have known of many a girl who 
has been so transported with bliss and drugged 
with sentiment at the time of her engagement as 
to really believe her future lord absolutely flaw¬ 
less. The rapture engendered by such a delusion 
must be more than counterbalanced by the rough 
awakening process through which these enthusi¬ 
asts almost necessarily pass after marriage; al¬ 
though, to be sure, there are now and then 
examples of maidens so simple-minded and idol¬ 
atrous as to carry the innocent hallucination with 
them to the grave. “ How charming! Scoff not 
at these children of nature,” cries the voice of 
the poet of idealism. I am aware of the bar¬ 
barity of my sentiment. I know my words sound 
very heartless; but only think what a bore a 
dog-Tray kind of wife must become to a man 
who seeks for intelligent companionship and dis¬ 
criminating sympathy, or into what a tedious ego¬ 
tist the husband who enjoys such namby-pamby 
molly-coddling must degenerate. What a goose a 
person must be to think a husband or wife clev¬ 
erer, better, or more sensible than the rest of the 


208 the confessions of a frivolous girl. 


world! Take, for instance, dear Marion Furbush, 
who is guileless as a turtle-dove. I do not sup¬ 
pose the idea has ever entered her head, or ever 
will unless some one is cruel enough to undeceive 
her, that anybody equal to her John has ever ex¬ 
isted before, at least in this part of the globe. 
She thinks each word that falls from his lips wis¬ 
dom, pure and unadulterated, and that everything 
he does must be right. She loves nothing better 
than to sit beside him and look up into his face 
while he is at work and if he sees fit to put out 
his hand to stroke her hair and call her his kitten, 
which is his usual expression of endearment, — I 
have stayed at their house, — her cup is full, and 
she purrs with pleasure, like the animal aforesaid. 
If I ever chance to speak of Murray and my hap¬ 
piness, she cannot help implying by her manner 
(the poor little thing would never be intentionally 
rude) that she considers my husband all very well, 
but as to comparing him for an instant with her 
John, she would as soon think of putting a heathen 
savage on a par with a missionary. Now John 
Furbush, as everybody knows, is an excellent, good- 
hearted fellow, with very fair abilities, no tact, 
and considerable self-complacency. He is dys¬ 
peptic, but in spite of this makes an admirable 
husband, and no one denies his solid worth; but 


SETTLING DOWN. 


209 


to say that there are not dozens of other men in 
the community who are his equals and superiors 
is simply nonsense. 

Now, where I think my years of frivolity have 
given me an advantage over many other girls is 
in such ways as this. I have seen the great world. 
I have become tolerably familiar with the weak¬ 
nesses of men. There is little danger of my mis¬ 
taking my ducks for swans. I will even hazard 
the assertion that, as things have turned out, I am 
now more supremely, more intelligently happy 
than I could have been had I never known what 
it was to be a frivolous girl. I admit it was a dan¬ 
gerous game to play. I have already acknowl¬ 
edged that I probably owe my salvation to a freak of 
destiny. But granting this to be so, am I not, con¬ 
sidering the result, rather to be envied than pitied, 
congratulated than maligned ? Results are possibly 
only a specious form of argument, but there is, 
at any rate, a pardonable satisfaction in getting 
the laugh upon your critics even where you are 
in the wrong, especially when they are other 
girls. 

As to the details of my abdication, I shall pre¬ 
serve a discreet silence. Sweet as it was, it could 
not but be galling to the pride withal. Shall I 
ever forget that mingled feeling of joy and despair 

14 


210 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


that told me I was vanquished? However great 
the rapture subsequent to capitulation, the act of 
surrender is far from unalloyed bliss to a sensitive- 
souled, proud girl. No true woman renounces her 
independence without a struggle. Truly could I 
apply the words of the poet to my own case: — 

“ With her as with a desperate town, 

Too weak to stand, too proud to treat, 

The conqueror, though the walls are down, 

Has still to capture street by street.” 

And prior also to the period of decision what 
agonies of doubt did I not undergo in making up 
my mind ? The symptoms were analogous to those 
experienced in my relations with Mr. Blake, but 
much more violent and racking. To speak of 
them in detail would be to a great extent repeti¬ 
tion, not to mention any scruples I may feel on 
the score of such a revelation being treason to my 
husband, who would doubtless prefer to have the 
veil drawn over the minutiae of his courtship. Let 
it suffice that I yielded. 

The world received the news of our engagement 
without manifesting much enthusiasm. Everybody 
thought it very nice and rational, but it was easy to 
discern that the predominant feeling was one of dis¬ 
appointment at my not having made a more brill¬ 
iant match in the worldly sense of the word. My 


SETTLING DOWN. 


211 


career had been so dazzling, and I had been such 
a quasi public character, so to speak, that society 
evidently felt it had a right to expect my final 
exploit to be in keeping with what had gone before. 
The current criticism was, naturally enough, “ All 
very well, but tame.” Mrs. Gunn’s animadversions, 
for instance, were, I imagine, tolerably characteristic 
of the sentiments of the fashionable set on the sub¬ 
ject. “ Eminently safe, my dear Alice,said ’she, 
% 

“ highly respectable; but ce nest pas tine grande 
passion .” During a further discussion of the theme, 
although admitting the ethical advantages that were 
likely to flow from the alliance, she alluded to my 
future lot as an organ-grinder sort of existence. 
She was very sweet about it in the main, however, 
and sent me a gorgeous silver pitcher and salver 
as a wedding-present. 

I must do Mamma the justice to say that what¬ 
ever her private feelings may have been, she wel¬ 
comed Murray as a son-in-law in the most angelic 
manner. To be sure, there was nothing about him 
of which she could seriously complain except his 
want of property, for his family were unexception¬ 
able in every way, and his personal character above 
reproach. But yet, knowing as I did how much 
her heart had been set on my marrying a mint of 
money, her behavior exceeded my most rose- 


212 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


colored expectations. Papa, who had always liked 
Mr. Hill, was greatly pleased. In spite of every 
precaution the report of our engagement leaked 
out two days before we intended it to be known. 
I was never able to discover who let the cat out of 
the bag. I had previously told three people, 
Grace Irving, Peepy Marshmellow, and Mrs. Gunn, 
and Mr. Hill had confided it to a man or two, but 
all of them solemnly asseverated that they never 
mentioned it to a soul. It was not, of course, of 
any material importance, but annoying neverthe¬ 
less. Our engagement was formally announced 
on Easter Monday, and by dint of teasing, we per¬ 
suaded our respective families to allow us to be 
married the following June. 

And so I have come to speak of my wedding, 
the final incident in the drama of maidenhood, the 
crowning episode of woman’s life. How funny it 
seemed to know that I was really going to be mar¬ 
ried at last and settle down into a demure, sober 
matron! As I lay upon my bed thinking over the 
past three years of enjoyment, I could not but 
dwell on the change that had come over my 
thoughts and impressions since the evening I as¬ 
cended Mrs. Van Amburgh’s staircase in the robes 
of a debutante. How long ago it seemed since I 
gave that fatal bud to Mr. Blake and first listened 


SETTLING DOWN. 


213 


to Harry Coney’s dulcet tones ! My life had been 
since then merely that of the ordinary girl whose 
position and graces entitle her to consideration in the 
world of fashion, and yet, withal, it was curious, in 
retracing the course of my days, to note the vacilla¬ 
tions I had myself undergone, the potent influences 
I had had upon the lives of others. Much more 
than man’s is the life of a girl swayed by light 
touches. Mere breaths decide her destiny, and triv- 
, ial currents are her guides and counsellors. How 
she will act she cannot tell, and why she acts is 
equally inscrutable. Her hours are passed in play¬ 
ing hide-and-seek with her own fancies, and even to 
herself her nature is an amazing riddle. But yet, in 
spite of mystery and maze, some fostering spirit 
seems to guide her wavering footsteps, and, though 
slight forces apparently govern her decisions, a 
subtle, unerring instinct, ever present, whispers to 
her which breeze to welcome, which to disregard. 
If woman but listen to the behests of her own 
nature, is she not secure? Her whims, where in¬ 
stinct prompts, are whims no longer. It is when 
she acts in disobedience to these dictates that she 
fails. 

Upon my wedding-day the sun shone brightly, 
and all the world and their mothers flocked to 
church to see me made a wife. While the bells of 


214 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 

Trinity pealed forth a joyous chime, I stood once 
more within my chamber, the centre of an admir¬ 
ing group gathered to see me dressed. 

“ Alice,, you will be late.” It was Papa’s voice 
from below, and again it was my turn to cry, 
“ Yes, Papa, in one minute.” 

Busy fingers, responsive to Mamma’s searching 
criticism, put the finishing touches to my garb of 
snow, and smoothed the flowing veil. Once more 
my aunt’s approving smile and the cruder flatter¬ 
ies of my quondam nurse nerved my trembling 
spirit as I swept down the staircase. They handed 
me my roses, sweet gift of him who had become 
now dearer to me than all the world beside, and 
then — then, a moment later, the home of my girl¬ 
hood was my home no longer. 

Scurrying past the gaping crowd that lined the 
church’s portal, we paused a moment while the 
doors were unbarred and the promised signal 
given to the organist. Then, after a frightful 
moment of delay, we walked slowly up the aisle 
to the music of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, 
Grace Irving and Mabel Murray in advance, and 
I following, trembling and pale, on Papa’s arm. 
All New York was in the pews, eager and strain¬ 
ing every nerve to catch a glimpse of my face 
and dress, and it would be difficult for girls who 


SETTLING DOWN. 


215 


have not had a kindred experience to imagine 
what a ghastly feeling such scrutiny inspires in 
one. 

Murray was waiting for us at the chancel, with 
Willy Easton, his best man. Before the altar, and 
in the presence of my friends, he placed the little 
ring upon my finger which has never left it since 
(I have seen some girls use theirs as whist-count¬ 
ers), and vowed to love and cherish me forever. 
I promised to obey and care for him, and then as 
man and wife we knelt together. A moment after, 
tearful and pale, with joy in my heart, but too 
timid to glance to right or left, I walked down the 
aisle, clinging to my husband’s arm, and sought a 
shelter in the protecting carriage. I have since 
been told that I looked proud and queenly, but I 
fear the lips that let fall that speech were skilled in 
flattery. 

The reception was crowded. It seemed dread¬ 
fully funny to hear myself called Mrs. Hill instead 
of Miss Palmer, and I was so dazed with excitement 
and embarrassment that my remarks to the people 
who came up to congratulate me must have been 
fearfully vague and meaningless. The first part of 
the time we had to undergo a regular siege of hand¬ 
shaking. Several old gentlemen who were friends 
of the family, Colonel Huckins among them, 


216 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


claimed the privilege of kissing the bride,— an 
operation which I tried to bear with due equanimity, 
but which could scarcely be called exhilarating. 

My friends turned out in full force. The Van 
Roosters, Ribblehursts, Eastons, Gunns, Marsh- 
mellows, Clymbers, Chalmers, Pumystones, Van 
Amburghs, and all the swells. “ Poodle ” Van 
Ulster condescended to wish me joy in company 
with Muchfeedi Pasha, who had come on from 
Washington for the express purpose. The Hon¬ 
orable Hare Hare showed that he bore no malice 
by sending a lovely basket of flowers and after¬ 
wards appearing in person. Even Mr. and Mrs. 
Coney, whom I had thought it best on the whole 
to invite, offered me their congratulations in a 
smiling, friendly way, and I made an effort to treat 
“ dear Harry ” with sufficient politeness. She 
looked, I thought, coarse and dumpy, but was 
gorgeously attired. The greatest surprise to me 
of all, however, was the appearance of Mr. 
Manhattan Blake, who had arrived from Europe 
the day before. I must acknowledge I felt a 
guilty qualm or two when he came up and shook 
hands in a way which, though necessarily a little 
constrained, was evidently intended to be kind 
It was a blessed relief, though, to feel, as I looked 
in his pale interesting face, unchanged except for 


SETTLING DOWN. 


2i; 


a thin pair of whiskers and slightly foreign air, 
that my fancy for him was completely dead. His 
presence did not awaken in me the slightest thrill, — 
a circumstance which, though perhaps natural un¬ 
der the circumstances, was extremely fortunate. I 
thought I detected in one of his glances a shadow 
of reproach, but very likely my suspicion was 
the fruit of an over-alert imagination, especially 
as the few words he said were commonplace and 
unemotional. Mr. Pumystone was also present, — 
in fact, had been one of the ushers at the church. 
He had sent me, a fortnight previous, a very hand¬ 
some pair of gravy tureens, which, all things consid¬ 
ered, struck me as remarkably nice of him. I could 
not help feeling that if they really did care for me 
still, it must be terribly hard for both these poor 
fellows to see me standing there the bride of an¬ 
other. But, as I have said before, such is life. 
I did not ask them to fall in love with me, and was 
it my fault that they chose to do so? 

Presently I was carried off to cut the cake, and 
a little later they hurried me up stairs to change 
my dress for the journey. From that time, until 
I found myself in the carriage with my dear hus¬ 
band, driving away amid a shower of shoes and 
rice, everything seemed a tearful blank. Then we 
turned to one another with love in our eyes. 


218 the confessions of a frivolous girl. 


What he said to me I have treasured up as the 
sweetest words in the world, and I am sure that 
he will never forget what I said to him. Grace 
Irving has confided to me that when she subse¬ 
quently married Thedy Ribblehurst, he said to 
her, under similar circumstances, — 

“ And the stars shall fall and the angels be weeping 
When I cease to love her, my queen, my queen.” 

And I know as a fact that practical-minded Pussy 
Baiker asked her new lord and master if he had got 
the tickets. But what Murray and I said to one 
another the curious world shall never know. 

We are very happy. My husband’s practice is 
increasing daily, and we have a little girl who 
promises to be as giddy as her mother. Murray 
has improved immensely in his manners. I knew 
that he would, or I should never have married him. 
Mrs. Gunn’s prophecy that he would never learn 
to enter a room properly was correct, but he has 
grown really fond of the dinners and small parties 
that we go to and occasionally give. He recognizes 
perfectly that my previous education has been such 
that a little innocent amusement is still a boon to me, 
and I, in turn, make a point of not keeping him out 
too late on such occasions. There is no use in 


SETTLING DOWN. 


219 


denying that society is to me what his profession 
and books are to him, and we each take delight in 
humoring the tastes of the other. If I say he 
is a broader man, may I not claim that I am no 
longer a frivolous girl? 

The great world is still gay. Mrs. Gunn is charm¬ 
ing and fashionable as ever, and occasionally en¬ 
livens my organ-grinder existence by dropping in 
for a friendly chat. She continues, however, to 
declare that I have thrown myself away, but I 
think she rather admires Murray in spite of her¬ 
self. Peepy Marshmellow is in England. She 
married the Honorable Hare Hare some six months 
after my wedding, and rumor says that she is likely 
to be Countess of Hammerhead before many 
days. 

I heard not long ago from one of my friends 
that Mr. Manhattan Blake confided to her he 
thanked his lucky stars he had never married Alice 
Palmer. As the boys say, that sounds well. If he 
is satisfied, I am sure that I am. He is still un¬ 
married, and although his health prevents him 
from practising law, devotes his leisure to liter¬ 
ary and artistic studies. 

In spite of my evil wishes, the Coneys are appar¬ 
ently happy. “ Dear Harry ” has made a large 
sum of money, people say, by speculating in some 


220 THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 


way connected with margins and “ Union Pacific.” 
I do not understand such matters, but I feel sure 
I shall yet live to hear Mamie crying for Sister 
Anna from the housetops. At present, however, 
I rather envy her her new drag. 

Gerald Pumystone’s engagement to Nuny 
Clymber was announced last week. She had been 
out six winters. 










































































































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